


The Ghost and Mrs. Mills

by ghostwriter107



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 135,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriter107/pseuds/ghostwriter107
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when widowed Isabelle French Mills seeks a fresh start in a beautiful Victorian house in a little coastal town, only to discover it's still occupied by it's former owner? Can true love exist between two souls on either side of life and death? An AU based on "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own neither Once Upon a Time nor The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. I just believe that beautiful stories should be told. For those who are curious, my story is based on the 1947 movie staring Rex Harrison and Gene Tierney, not the television series by the same name. I hope you enjoy my version. Each chapter references a song that can be found on Youtube for inspiration.  
> For inspiration: The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face by Matt Cardle  
> 

**The Ghost and Mrs. Mills**

**Prologue**

**June, 2012**

Robert Gold was a lonely man.

He had moved to Storybrooke, Maine some ten years ago, leaving his wreck of a life in Glasgow behind and looking for a fresh start. He had been fortunate in acquiring a few lucrative properties, greatly improving his finances, even if his strict business senses hadn't endeared him to any of his fellow townsmen. Not that making friends had ever been his goal.

He was generally content with the status quo. Approaching forty-five, he had managed to survive a tumultuous marriage, a bitter divorce, a long-distance relationship with his son, bankruptcy, a crippling auto accident, and a well-timed move to a new country. He had earned degrees in Law and Business, and had developed a knack for real estate. His life was settling into a quiet flow of work and the occasional correspondence from his son, newly graduated from an American college and settling into his first job in Manhattan.

On most days, he opened his pawn shop around eight o-clock, bargained to procure or sell various items, set terms for loans or worked out the details of the few legal matters that came his way, and then he closed the shop around four in the afternoon. The evenings he spent collecting rent or loan payments from various clients. His polite but cold demeanor and no-nonsense reputation caused people to fear him. That suited him, as he was determined that his business succeed without slipping into the murky waters of extensions, sob stories and other nonsense. His routine and reputation meant he was growing beyond financial security to out and out wealth. It also had the effect of isolating him from the rest of the town.

Over the years he had bought several properties, often living in them during a renovation process. He was no slum lord. Each house he had lived in had been brought up to a standard he had set for himself, and he had spared no expense in making each investment sound and esthetically pleasing. He lived in each residence for a few months to a year, moving around in the small town from one neighborhood to another, but none of these places had he ever considered home.

The Victorian manor at the end of Moncton Avenue he acquired five months ago he had intended to be just another purchase. Various members of the same family had occupied it for nearly one hundred years. The family had kept it in beautiful condition, had made a few modernizations over the years, but nothing that altered the original structure of the house. The exterior had been painted to suit various tastes throughout that time, but a little research had led him to the original colors, and he had paid handsomely to have the home restored to its former glory. Although he knew a few townsmen snickered about the "Beast of Storybrooke" residing in a "pink doll house," he was genuinely pleased that the house was authentic.

He had kept the furnishings that had come with the property, all quality period pieces that would have taken years to acquire otherwise. Most of the rooms retained the vintage wallpapers from decades before, and he had paid a local seamstress to replicate the dozens of window treatments he had seen in old photographs. The only thing that had truly changed over the hundred years of the home's existence was the conversion of the old gaslights to electricity, definitely a change for the better. The entire venture filled him with a sense of pride, and amazingly, with a feeling of homecoming.

He had learned several months previously that the reclusive elderly woman who owned the house was going to live with one of her children in Florida. Inquiries indicated she had no relatives who were interested in the old family seat, and the word was she wanted the house to retain its vintage purity, a sentiment that matched his own perfectly. He had contacted Thelma Babcock with an offer, and had been met with a polite rejection. Deciding a personal approach may yield better results, he made his way over to the quaint manor and knocked on the old, stained glass and panel doors on a snowy day just after Christmas. Within minutes the door was answered by a dignified lady, thin and petite, with more than a few wrinkles, a long, white braid down her back and clad in a blue sweat suit. The warm air from the interior washed over him, carrying with it the scent of roses to mingle with the frigid salt sea air about him. He found himself drawn into the old woman's fathomless blue eyes and after a moment, he realized she was staring at him, holding her breath. Suddenly concerned, he reached out and offered his hand.

"Are you alright?"

She continued staring for a moment longer, and then, accepting his hand, laughed depreciatingly. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry. You reminded me of someone."

Hoping that reminder was a good thing, he smiled. "I'm Robert Gold. I came to inquire about the house."

"Robert Gold…Gold," she whispered, cupping his hand inside of her own withered hands. She peered closely into his brown eyes, let her own roam over his face for just a moment, and then smiled. "Yes, Mr. Gold, of course you have. Would you like to come in?"

"Yes, please, if it's no trouble."

Thelma stood back from the door and he limped in, wiping his feet on the mat in front of the threshold. Once inside, the old woman steered him past the parlor and into the kitchen, explaining she had put the kettle on and needed to tend it. "Besides," she said, "it's lovely to have tea in a warm kitchen when it's beastly outside."

If having someone genuinely smile at him was a rarity in Gold's life, being invited to tea in someone's kitchen was unheard of. A bit out of his element, he quietly followed the small woman into the depths of the old house. The kettle had just begun to whistle, and she chatted with him about mundane things in the town below while she prepared tea in a much-used teapot with a floral design on front. Bustling about, she opened a tin of shortbread cookies, selected a few and arranged them on a plate in the center of the tray. Next, she poured two big mugs of tea, taking the liberty of adding sugar and cream to each before placing them beside the cookies. Taking up the repast-laden tray, she led him into the dining room and seated him at the head of a long, oak table. He noted the chair he had been given did not match its eight companions, but was sturdy and comfortable, and it seemed to suit him.

Mrs. Babcock took a chair immediately to his right. She placed a steaming mug in front of him and pushed the plate of cookies over to him, waited until he reluctantly took one, and then settled herself with a sip of her tea. Setting the cup down and nesting its warmth in her hands, she resumed her study of his face. Unused to such scrutiny, and at a loss as to how this tiny woman had managed to gain control over a moment he usually dominated, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Noting his discomposure, the lady lowered her gaze with a soft chuckle. "Forgive me: I didn't mean to stare, it's just that you surprised me."

"No matter," he responded dismissively.

"Well, Mr. Gold, I understand that you're interested in this house."

Ah: a business transaction. Now he was in familiar territory. "Yes, I am. I made a good offer on the property, but you turned it down. I don't think you'll get a better deal."

The old woman reached over and patted his hand as she would a child. "Mr. Gold, your offer was very fair." Shaking her head she laughed at herself. "This house has been in my family for six generations. There's a lot of history in this old house, a lot of memories for me." She shrugged. "It's hard to let go."

Gold took a deep breath, ready to being the haggling, but when met with the woman's dreamy gaze he realized that he understood. "I see," he said. This place, this house, was no commodity to this woman. It was family and history and identity. It was home in a way he had never experienced, probably never would experience. He had come here to talk to a homeowner, to make a better offer and walk away with another deal for his ever-expanding acquisitions. As he peered into the wizened blue eyes that held his, he realized she wasn't selling. He was surprised to find that he lacked the usual ruthless drive to obtain what he wanted over the client's objections. Instead, he relaxed and decided to enjoy the rare moment of receiving another's hospitality. She turned out to be a gifted storyteller, and she unfolded for him the tale of her own family: of her own great-grandmother who had purchased the house long ago; of the family's love for the sea and the town; of how her relations were now scattered across the country and overseas as far as England, Japan and Australia. He caught a certain gleam in her eye when he admitted that he had had a seafaring ancestor long ago, one rumored to have settled somewhere along the eastern seaboard, but of whom little was known.

After finishing his second cup, he thanked her for inviting him in and for her kindness. "Well, then, I should be going."

They rose together and turned out of the dining room. Still smiling, Thelma took his arm and slowly steered him in the direction of the parlor. "You know, Mr. Gold, you've come all this way: would you care to see the rest of the house?"

"Yes, I would like that very much."

She led him through various rooms on the ground floor, confiding small memories of events that took place here and there, of games played and meals shared, of mishaps and holidays and homecomings. She showed him a few nicks in the wallpaper or miniscule chips in the woodwork, all related to the pleasant doings and few tragedies of a close-knit family now scattered abroad. An ache grew in him that he had no similar experiences: that he had failed to put down roots, that no one shared his lonely life. He realized that his son, now grown, would one day marry and have children. A house like this would be an invitation to spend time with a grandfather, to make new memories that would be shared in this same manner to his own generations. He listened to the old woman weave the tale of her history with uncharacteristic patience for one such as himself, hungry for the connection she described and willingly partook of the crumbs of her experience.  
Gold followed her up the wide, dark staircase to the second floor where they were greeted by a long hallway of oak floors and painted doors. A beautiful bathroom equipped with an antique clawfoot tub as well as a modern shower, beautiful tile work and a large vanity occupied the end of the hallway. Two other rooms were guest bedrooms, with old, well cared for bedsteads and dressers, the walls painted in pastel shades with lovely rugs laid out to warm the coldness of the hardwood floors. One room housed a small library with polished floor to ceiling bookshelves and volumes of leather-bound and hard-back books, some of them out of print antiques, others classics and modern novels, some double-shelved. Pointing to a shelf laden with perhaps three dozen well preserved volumes, the widow indicated several tomes her great-grandmother had written, offering him the opportunity to read one in the near future. He smiled and thanked her politely, indicated that he would, perhaps, take her up on that sometime.

Thelma led him to the final door. Smiling, she said, "If you please, Mr. Gold, the master bedroom."

She swung the door open and led him inside. The room was painted a lovely cream white, a small fireplace of painted brick with a gas fire keeping the room warm in spite of the winter chill outside. The room was rather spacious and a vintage, four-pollster bed with a dresser and a vanity fit comfortably inside without crowding. A lavender coverlet lay upon the bed, neatly made, and great fluffy pillows cased in white satin headed it. Matching curtains were drawn aside, revealing a set of French doors leading out to a balcony over which the gray clouds outside obscured what he knew would be a view of the beach. The serenity of the room settled on him from his vantage point near the doorway.

Gold had marginally noticed two portraits, a man done in oil on canvas and a photograph of a woman, hanging beside one another over the mantle. Directing his attention on them, he was taken back by the image of the man on the right. Clad in a dark seaman's jacket over a white shirt, and under a captains' hat was his own face, whiskered and somewhat sardonic, staring back at him. That was the very image of his mouth, his nose, and his own intense brown eyes returning his shocked stare.

The old woman approached him as he gaped at the portrait and laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Gold?"

He turned a skeptical eye toward her and stated flatly, "no, ma'am, I do not."

Thelma looked up at him, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Well, maybe one day one will come around and introduce itself." She gestured to the portrait. "This is Captain Daniel Gold, the builder of this house." Smiling, the widow patted his arm and looked kindly into his astonished eyes. "And, I suppose, a distant grandfather of yours?"

Gold remembered hearing stories of a distant relation who had been a seaman over a hundred years ago. He had left his family behind in Scotland to traverse the sea lanes, disappearing in obscurity and rumored to have settled somewhere along the eastern coastline of America. He hadn't thought of these stories since his boyhood, and never in his wildest dreams did he ever hope to solve the riddle of his fate. "Remarkable!"

Thelma chuckled at his reaction. She had seen the similarities between this man and the familiar old portrait when she had opened the door to him earlier. For a moment, she had thought the old family stories about the captain's ghost haunting the manor once upon a time had come true and, being a romantic old soul, she half believed she might be the recipient of such a visit. Drawing Gold's attention back to herself, she gestured toward the portrait's companion photograph in introduction. "And this is my great-grandmother, Isabelle. It was she who bought this house and brought our family here."

Turning his head, his breath caught as he found himself drawn to a pair of unfathomable eyes with the temperament of a clear sky over a sun-dazzled sea. Dreamy lids and thick lashes framed what he knew must be azure eyes, contentment sweetly preserved in the aspect of her gaze. A perfectly turned nose with just a hint of freckles led to an expressive mouth with a demure smile, and there was a slight blush to her porcelain skin. Her rich, thick hair was swept up away from her face, with the long locks flowing freely behind her. The high collar of a silk blouse partially hid her throat, the outline of her shoulders fading into a dark, indistinct background. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He was captivated.

Her image stayed with him as he made his way back to his lonely loft apartment that evening. Over the next few days he thought about the fathomless eyes that seemed to gaze into his inner self, could see in his mind's eye the lovely young woman walking and smiling, could feel the kindness that had been captured on the canvas. He laughed at himself for his infatuation with the ladies portrait, and pushing the whole experience from his mind, he immersed himself in his work.

A week after New Years Day, a medium sized box was delivered to him at his shop. Just inside was a letter, written with a feminine hand in blue ink:

Dear Mr. Gold,

I so enjoyed your visit a few days ago. I can see that you have a fondness and appreciation for the house, and knowing that, I have decided to accept your generous offer for my family home. However, this is contingent upon you agreeing to meet the following conditions:

First, you will make it your home, and will preserve its beauty. You must agree to spend the rest of your life living in it, and then bequeath it to your heir.

Second, you will keep the portraits in the master bedroom hanging where they are. They are a lovely couple and have had many happy years watching over our family and the house they both loved.

And last, you will gift your future bride with the items you'll find included here. These things belonged to the Captain, and were kept in safekeeping by our family.

Consider carefully when you decide to make this deal. Remember, it's forever, dearie!

Sincerely,

Mrs. Thelma Babcock

Gold smiled, charmed by the eccentric old lady who dared to demand conditions of the "Beast of Storybrooke." He dug through the packing foam filling the cavity of the box and pulled out the first cup of a beautiful antique tea set. Curiously, the cup was chipped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks also to those of you who are reading and reviewing. For those of you who notice hints at either OUAT, TGMM or Beauty and the Beast throughout all of these chapters, please let me know you've spotted them! It's been fun writing little details in to see if they are discovered! dmw


	2. Fighting Ogres

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration: Brave by Josh Groban

Mills Manor, Boston, Massachusetts, May 1912

"Come now dear, you're still too distraught over losing poor Gerald to think clearly."

The nerves in Isabelle's stomach roiled with irritation. The way her mother-in-law spoke to her pushed her beyond defensiveness. Cora Mills had perfected the delivery of venom and condescension with a benevolent smile and just the perfect tone of indulgent superiority to guarantee the successful manipulation of whomever she spoke with. She had wielded that particular skill often and liberally throughout the nine years Isabelle had known her.

"Mother Mills," she responded tightly, "I can assure you that I have thought this over very thoroughly and intend to go through with my arrangements."

Cora narrowed her eyes at her for a moment before shifting on the settee and turning her attention to the tea service set on the low table before her. In her early fifties, Cora was still as beautiful and poised as any woman half her age. Stiff, black dresses had become her consistent attire since the passing of her husband, Henry, two years ago, and of her son, Isabelle's husband, not eleven months hence. The mourning color suited her and the loss of her husband had not diminished her. She had always held the reigns of power both at home and in the boardroom, and such was her constitution that none had witnessed so much as the shedding of a single tear over her late husband's passing. Some could say they had witnessed a few over the loss of Gerald Gaston Mills, as she had doted on and spoiled her handsome son his entire life. Still, she carried on admirably with an amazing ability to run the family's business interests and the interests of the family with equal agility. Upon seeing the absolute resolve in Isabelle's expression, however, she shifted tactics, deferring the matter to her daughter. "Regina, dear, perhaps you can talk some sense into her."

Regina's dark scowl bore into her sister-in-laws crystal blue eyes. Tall and buxom, Regina's beauty was renowned and rivaled only by her brother's widow. She had been her father's favorite and he had indulged her every whim and fancy her entire life. Spoiled and selfish, her only restraint was the iron grip her mother held on her, as she did with everyone. Regina, as ambitious as her mother but lacking her subtlety, sauntered a bit closer to Isabelle, attempting to intimidate the petite widow with her superior height. Fixing her steady gaze on Isabelle, she said in a clipped tone, "Mother's right, Isabelle. You should stay here where you and Lucy can be taken care of. You've never run a house of your own, and have no income. You'll wind up on the streets in no time."

Isabelle, prepared as she was for this double tactic, still bristled at Regina's cruel words. Rather than deflate her, however, the snide remarks only strengthened her resolve. Taking a calming breath, she released the tension she was feeling. Do the brave thing and bravery will follow. Smiling, she folded her hands serenely in front of her. "That's not true. I ran my father's house for several years before I married Gerald." Feeling a bit more confident, she continued. "I've met with my solicitor, and can assure you that I have all that I need. I have a small inheritance from my parents, and I have the shares Gerald left me from one of his oil properties." Seeing objections formulating from her in-laws, she took a bold step forward and continued. "I will leave on the train to Portland, Maine at sunrise tomorrow," straightening her shoulders she leveled a final blow, "and I am taking Martha with me."

At this news, Cora's mask slipped from arrogant indulgence to controlled anger. She rattled her teacup in the saucer in irritation before placing it safely on the table. Leveling a stern gaze at her daughter-in-law she said coldly, "I forbid it. Martha is on staff here." The maid was one of the more appreciated assets Isabelle had brought to the household, and she didn't care to lose the competent and talented servant.

Undaunted, Isabelle continued, "Martha came with me from Father's house when I married Gerald. She will go with Lucy and me tomorrow. I've already made arrangements and she's agreed."

Isabelle watched as Cora glared hatefully at her for a few heartbeats before taking a deep breath to reign in her temper. The older woman then slipped on the mask of an understanding smile, rose from the settee, and quietly made her way toward where she stood, her graceful gait and the cool swish of her silk skirts reminding the young widow of some predator stalking its prey, and her skin tingled in warning as she approached.

Taking Isabelle's hand in her own clammy palm, Cora sighed and said, "Well, my dear, I see your mind is made up. Of, course, you understand, you do this without my blessing."

Isabelle understood her mother-in-law's unswerving belief in the sanctity of her holdings and stated firmly, "I'm not asking for your blessing, Mother Mills. I'm telling you that it's time for me to move on with my life and make a home for my daughter and myself."

Regina, standing just behind her, folded her arms and offered a harsh warning. "Yes, Isabelle, we can see that you're set on indulging this little whim of yours. Don't expect to come home with open arms when you fail."

"There, there, Regina," Cora interjected, her indulgent gaze still fixed on Isabelle. She and Regina had their routine perfected to an art form; one antagonistic while the other was supportive. "Of course, Isabelle, you'll be welcomed home whenever you decide."

Relieved at the feigned capitulation, Isabelle smiled and withdrew her hands from her mother-in-law's grip. "Thank you, Mother Mills. I'm sure that won't be necessary." She gathered her skirts and turned from the two women, making her way to the parlor door. Pausing to look back at them she said, "I'll be packing for the rest of the day. I'm taking our clothing and personal effects for now, and I'll send for our furnishings when we've established our residence." That being said, she passed through the doorway and closed the door behind her, leaving her in-laws to contemplate her decision.

For the space of a few moments, neither woman spoke. Regina regarded her mother's silence, waiting for her to make a pronouncement on the new circumstance, keeping her own feelings in check. Without her brother's widow and child in-house to occupy her mother's attention, her own life was sure to come under more scrutiny. Cora already interfered with her daughter's life as a rule. Regina was used to using Isabelle's' oddities to divert her mother's attention away from herself in favor of the more cumbersome task of trying to control Gerald's obstinate, young widow. The habit of criticizing Isabelle came easily, even more so when Isabelle didn't even attempt to follow the elder woman's directives.

Turning to Cora, Regina said coldly, "The very idea! You can't let her leave like this, Mother!"

"Of course, I can, darling" her mother purred. Returning to the settee, she picked up her cup and saucer. "Perhaps this distraction is just what we need."

She grimaced as she sipped her cooling tea before setting the cup down and rejecting it. Stupid girl, letting her selfish demands ruin a perfectly good brew. Smiling, she patted the space next to her and waited for her dark haired daughter to join her on the settee. "Isabelle just needs a little taste of independence. It will help her let go of the past and demonstrate just how much she needs our help. By the time she runs out of money, she'll be ready to come home, and with a much more cooperative attitude."

Regina was perplexed by her mother's indulgent attitude. "And you approve?"

Cora shook her head and released a amused chuckle. Taking Regina's hand in one of her own, she brushed the other against her daughter's cheek, causing a shudder to run through the younger woman's frame. "Regina, darling, you have so much to learn."

She patted her hand and, releasing it, gestured toward the steaming teapot. Dutifully, Regina selected a fresh cup and poured her mother more tea, dropped two sugar cubes in it and stirred in a little cream before handing it to her. Taking the cup from her daughter, Cora continued. "Our dear Isabelle has always been a bit of a free-thinker, always trying to forge her own path. You remember how much trouble she was to Gerald? Always wanting to know what was going on, always reading, making suggestions, inquisitive: interfering. Since his passing, she's become even more uncontrollable. In her present state, she's not very amenable to our purposes."

A smirk appeared on Regina's full lips. "So, you're cutting her loose so she can fall flat on her face."

"Of course." Gerald may have been as conniving as his mother, but Regina was coming along nicely. "She really isn't much use to us while she's in mourning, any way. By the time she's ready for the social scene again, she'll be back under my roof, broken and pliable, and ready for a nice profitable match. She may be practically penniless, but she's a Mills now, and that name and her rather obvious assets will attract any number of appropriate suitors. Investing in a generous dowry on her behalf should result in a very profitable merger."

"Meaning you'll sell her to the highest bidder."

Cora allowed a proud smile and inclined her head, acknowledging her daughters' assessment. Yes, Henry's influences were finally wearing off and Regina was learning how to handle herself at last. "Well put, darling."

She had barely sipped the fresh tea her daughter had fixed for her, and she placed the nearly full cup on the table, as finished with her morning repast as she was with her daughter-in-law's rebellion. Smoothing her hands over the silky smoothness of her skirt, she continued. "She has an excellent solicitor in Mr. Shelton, and it took time and quite a sum of money to get an ally from his office on the payroll to help us take control of her father's shipping business. We're still profiting from that venture, with Isabelle being totally unaware of our takeover. It's only a matter of time before we can arrange for her shares from Gerald's estate to dry up."

She discovered that it was difficult to remain angry at the little chits' audacity when she did so love undermining a challenge and calculating a new move. Smiling again, she continued. "Isabelle doesn't have much to bring to the table at the moment, but she can still be an asset to us. Her time away can be used to our advantage."

Cora rose, signaling teatime was over, and Regina, placing her own half-empty cup on the table, rose as well. Cora placed her hand on Regina's elbow and escorted her from the parlor. Passing through the doorway, she smiled benevolently and said, "Besides, darling. It will give us time to concentrate on finding a suitable match for you as well."

XXXXXX

Isabelle swept open the door to her bedroom and fairly sailed inside. She leaned back against the heavy door, a wide smile for the two who waited for her, and said breathlessly, "It's done! We leave in the morning!"

"Oh, thank heavens!" exclaimed her maid, Martha. Ten years her senior, Martha was a stout woman with shock of blonde hair she kept in subjugation beneath a lace cap. She was smart and capable, with the constitution of three men and a peculiar talent for balancing dutiful obedience to her younger mistress with genuine friendship and concern. She'd been taking care of Isabelle since she was six years old, and it would be cold day in Hell when Martha Potts let her charge brave the unknown world without her. 

Launching from the maid's lap and into her mother's embrace, seven-year-old Lucy squealed with undisguised glee. Isabelle kissed the bonny child with great blue eyes and dancing, chestnut ringlets, laughing at her enthusiasm. "Alright, darling, time to get busy. Be a good girl and go to your room and start laying your clothes out on the bed."

"I will, Mama." She opened the door and ran across the hall to the nursery to arrange her things.

Knowing they had to pack in a hurry, Isabelle wasted not one moment. Standing before her wardrobe, she began pulling out her own clothing, laying dresses and sundries on the bedstead while issuing orders to her friend. "Martha, would you be a dear and ask Martin to bring down my old trunks from the attic? And, maybe a few that won't be missed?" Her teeth tugging on her bottom lip, she took mental inventory of what she remembered was in storage. "I know, have him bring down Gerald's trunks for Lucy; and enough for your belongings, too."

"Of course, Miss." Isabelle smiled. Martha still addressed her as "miss" even though she had been married more than eight years ago. Crossing the room, the servant made her way over to Isabelle and placed a hand on her shoulder, interrupting her hurried movements. "Oh, Miss, you're finally getting out of this house, getting a life of your own!"

Taking a deep breath, Isabelle looked into her friend's happy and supportive face. "Yes," she answered. "It's taken a lot of planning, but we'll finally be on our own. Oh, Martha, we're going into the wide, wide world at last!"

"That we are, Miss. And right well we'll do, too, I expect! The sooner we're shed of this family the better we'll be," the maid returned conspiratorially. "There, I said that out loud!"

Isabelle laughed. "Indeed you did! I've said it often enough myself!" Squeezing Martha's hand, she released it and turned back to her task. "We'll have time to pat ourselves on the back when we're on the train in the morning. I'll get my things together and then go to Mr. Shelton's office for whatever legal papers I'll need, and then to the bank. While I'm gone, you can help Lucy pack. I'll pack this afternoon, and make a list of the furniture to be shipped later."

"Yes, Miss." Martha left the room briskly, closing the door behind her. Going to her bureau, Isabelle opened a drawer and retrieved a small, black handbag. As she slammed the now empty drawer closed, a framed miniature of her late husband fell over with a thick thud. Startled, Isabelle picked it up and gazed upon Gerald's striking features.

There was no denying he had been handsome. Indeed, it had been his attractive face that had won her girlish, 17-year-old heart nine years ago. If she had known then what cold and self-serving man lay beneath those sculpted features, she would have shunned his courtship and saved herself much heartache. But then, he had given her Lucy, and she was worth any price life or fate would have demanded of her. She set the photograph back on the bureau and began to turn away, determined to leave it behind as she was leaving her life here behind. Thinking better of it, though, she picked it up and set it among the things she had set aside to pack. She may go her entire life without any desire to look upon his haughty face, but he was likely to be the only father Lucy would ever know and she'd pass the photograph to her when she was older.

XXXXX

Isabelle spent a restless night of combined excitement and anxiety. After returning from her errands, she and Martha had quickly packed Lucy's trunks with her clothes, books and toys. The girl then wandered into her mother's room, too excited to play on her own. With her daughter's marginal assistance, Isabelle packed her own clothes into the same trunks she had carried into the MillsMansion some eight years before as a bride. She used three smaller trunks to pack her precious collection of books into, as well as her shoes and boots. Several hatboxes were neatly stacked next to the trunks, as was a basket to be filled with some food and water from the kitchen just prior to leaving in the morning. Important papers and documents from her attorney were safely tucked into a satchel to be kept close at hand, along with three train tickets and money for the conveyance that would take them to their new home. All was ready, packed and waiting for a new life to begin on the morrow.

After a light supper, she made a list of the furniture she had brought to the household when she had married Gerald, as well as several items she had inherited from her late father's estate. These pieces were currently stored in the attic as they had been neither needed nor wanted amongst the Mills furnishings. She was glad she'd be surrounded by her parent's furnishings, as much for the fond memories associated with them as for her repugnance at bringing anything belonging to her deceased husband's family into her future.

She made a copy of the list for her mother-in-law, submitting it to her before Cora had retired for the night, and she had penned a copy for her solicitor as well. During this interlude, Cora had kept up the appearance of reluctant support while Regina sulked nearby, both bidding her and Lucy a cold farewell. Having been too busy with her preparations to dine with her in-laws, she shared a late, light supper with Lucy and Martha in the kitchen. Soon afterward, she tucked Lucy into bed for the evening and retired herself, as they were required to rise early to make the 6:00 train the next morning.

Now, bone weary and emotionally overwrought, Isabelle lay sleepless next to Lucy in her own bed. Her daughter seldom slept with her, as her husband's family frowned on it, but tonight was an exception and she welcomed the child's warmth to cuddle up to. Lucy's head rested on her shoulder, and they lay almost nose to nose, the child in repose in quiet contrast to her wakeful mother. She was a perfect blend of her parents' features, with her father's stature and olive coloring and her mother's blue eyes, chestnut colored hair and expressive mouth. She had inherited her father's eye for nature and her mother's love of books. In temperament, she was outgoing and stubborn like Isabelle, and she had, thankfully, not inherited her father's explosive temper. The child was bright and inquisitive, and her gregarious nature was not appreciated among her father's relations.

Isabelle was in constant conflict with her mother-in-law as "Grandmama" continuously interfered with Lucy's rearing, inserting her own influence and vetoing Isabelle's preferences. Isabelle had begun isolating herself and her daughter in their rooms more often of late in an effort to escape Cora's restrictions and allow Lucy the freedom to develop her natural inclinations. It was this growing restriction more than any other factor that had set her on the path toward liberation. A few weeks past, Cora had informed her that she had submitted Lucy's name to a boarding school in New York for enrollment in the fall semester. An argument had ensued in which Isabelle vehemently objected to sending her daughter away, while Cora smiled and assured her that given some thought she'd see the advantages Lucy would gain from such an arrangement. She could see that she was in for a contest of wills, and she knew that disobeying her mother-in-laws' edict would result in only more conflict between them. Her beautiful Lucy, so full of life and love had made her own life bearable in a home filled from cellar to rafter with plots and political intrigue and Isabelle was determined to free them both from Cora's tyranny.

Isabelle's life hadn't always been so stifled. Her father, Maurice French, had been a seaman in his early years and had learned the shipping trade first hand. He was a large, friendly man with a knack for business and a trustworthy demeanor that forged trust and easy alliances. He learned the shipping lanes and ports of call and had an eye for quality goods and a talent for selling them. By the age of forty, he had built a fleet of merchant ships and amassed a fortune. Around this time, he married the beautiful Madeline D'Arcy, the only child of a wealthy merchant and twenty years his junior, merging their fortunes into a lucrative business empire. Maurice purchased a mansion in the wealthy district of Boston and set up house with his young bride. They were very happy together, and wanted only for a family: however, conceiving that family proved difficult due to Madeline's delicate health. Isabelle was born only after many years and several miscarriages.

The French's doted on their daughter, treating her like a princess and lavishing all of their parental hopes on her. They were good parents, balancing generosity and discipline, teaching Isabelle to weigh privilege and hearty work ethics with equal appreciation. Recognizing the child was extremely intelligent, tutors were employed to teach her, and Madeline purchased a library of books for her bright daughter. Isabelle enjoyed the attention of her loving parents and played and grew in the sunshine of her Boston home.

When Isabelle was six years old, Madeline's health began to decline. Maurice hired Martha, a sturdy girl of sixteen who displayed an amazing talent for caring for both mother and child. Martha proved to be a constant and loyal companion, taking charge of Isabelle when Madeline grew tired, arranging her lessons, teaching her how to perform household chores and discussing with her the many fanciful worlds her books introduced her to. She made sure Madeline rested sufficiently to make the best of the time she was able to spend with her young daughter, and she instilled in Isabelle how precious the moments they shared together were.

Madeline's heart gave out soon after Isabelle's twelfth birthday. It was Martha who held the household together, allowing the widowed father and loving daughter time to grieve, and then begin living again. Within the year, the maid had encouraged her young lady enough that Isabelle was almost able to run the household, sharing that burden with her until she had finished her education. Under her tutelage, the girl blossomed into a sensible young woman, caring, capable and courageous, who dreamed of finding true love and family for herself as her parents had.

At the age of seventeen, Isabelle caught the eye of one Gerald Gaston Mills, the son of a wealthy banker and old money.

She had met Gerald one spring evening while attending a friend's social. He was a tall man with wide shoulders, piercing hazel eyes and features that appeared to have been chiseled by the hand of a master sculptor. He was the handsomest man Isabelle had ever seen in her life. Enraptured, she listened at dinner as he regaled the guests with stories of his travels to far off countries, of hunting big game animals and of frequenting the courts and ports of foreign lands. Isabelle had only read of these places, dreamed about traveling, longed to experience what he casually discussed. When he had sought her out among the guests for private conversation, she became infatuated; when he asked her to dance, she fairly swooned with delight; when he stole a sweet kiss in the garden she fell in love. 

Within a month he had won over her father, had courted her and had asked for her hand. They were married shortly before her eighteenth birthday.

She had thought that living here with her in-laws was to be a temporary arrangement when Gerald first brought her here after their honeymoon. Belle had settled into the room she shared with Gerald for the first few months while he spent long hours at her father's company, learning the business he had inherited as Maurice's son-in-law. Her attempts to integrate into her new family proved both futile and frustrating. Whereas her in-laws had appeared caring and supportive during her short engagement to Gerald, they soon proved to be cold, calculating and controlling.

Cora Mills orchestrated the mechanisms of the family's vast financial holdings and held the reigns of the family hearth and home with a tight fist. Her family pedigree boasted settlers who had come over on the Mayflower as well as a strain of nobility who had established themselves before the Revolutionary War. She had come from "old money," and had the air of royalty about her that made Isabelle feel awkward and lacking. Gerald's father, Henry, was a successful banker with business interests extending from the mid-west of the United States to several European countries; however, at home, he was a weak man whose innate kindness was stifled by his wife, rendering him a mere puppet of her many plots and intrigues.

Gerald's younger sister, Regina, was four years Isabelle's senior. Regina was beautiful, tall with dusky skin, heavy, black hair, full lips and cold, dark eyes. She moved with flawless grace and her presence commanded attention, as if a queen had entered into the sphere of mere mortals. She dominated everyone in her social circle with a poise that made her peers gratefully concede the position to her as her right, a privilege that was only ever eclipsed by her mother. Educated at the finest schools, Regina had little interest in academics, and though she appreciated the privilege her parent's wealth afforded her, she disdained marrying for money, hurtfully offering that her brother had done that duty for family. Her expressed interests revolved around politics, which Cora encouraged. That Regina had remained unmarried at an age beyond that which conventional society thought proper testified to the consensus of mother and daughter that she make a suitable match with a powerful politician, preferably one close enough to Boston to be influenced for the family's benefit.

It hadn't been long after settling his young bride at his family estate that Gerald had gotten her pregnant, and with the pregnancy, had shown his true colors. The deference he had shown her during their courtship gave way to demands that she support his interests exclusively. He forbade her to pursue studies, intimating it was an unfeminine occupation, even though Regina had attended a women's college. Gerald vigorously pursued the manly sports of hunting and riding, often gone for days or weeks traipsing over rugged terrains bagging trophies and bringing home a staggering collection of pelts and antlers, proudly displaying them in his study and the local club he and Henry were members of. Some of the poor remains made their way into the couple's bedroom where Isabelle was expected to suppress her revulsion of the dead eyes staring blankly at her while she tried to sleep.

Her husband often criticized Isabelle for her lack of appropriate enthusiasm over his pre-occupation, detailing this as one of many disappointments in her endlessly flawed character. His turn from ideal suitor to demeaning spouse was a source of bewilderment and unhappiness to Isabelle as she vainly tried to navigate her place in their marriage. He berated and belittled her, blamed and bullied her until she dare not speak her mind or pursue her own interests. He was backed by his family, his mother constantly "suggesting" she learn her proper role, his sister sneering at her perceived mistakes and his father giving sympathetic looks but intervening not. In time she learned that Gerald Mills, underneath his puffed chest and boastful demeanor, was his mother's boy, and that the love she had thought had brought them together never existed. Cora held high aspirations for her son, whom she equated with the family holdings. It hadn't been love that had induced Gerald to court Isabelle, but his mother's pursuit of the French's business, and her encouragement to make a match with the shipping magnate's daughter was merely a means of securing more money for the family coffers.

Gerald had, at first, assumed his duties in her father's shipping company with enthusiasm. After a few months, he conferred more often with his mother concerning the business, and then began turning his duties over to Francis LaFou, a junior partner at Mr. Shelton's office. Over time, Gerald managed to buy up substantial shares in her father's business, becoming the major stockholder, leaving her unsuspecting French with only a fraction of the interests. 

Maurice had been somewhat concerned, but as Gerald was Isabelle's husband and certainly had her best interests at heart, he did nothing to stop the virtual takeover by Mills, Incorporated. Within three years, Maurice's holdings had dwindled down to a handful of ships and the beautiful house he had raised his daughter in. Investing all of his money in one potentially lucrative investment in a shipment of goods from India, his last remaining fleet floundered in a hurricane; ships, goods and men all lost in the bottom of the Atlantic. Upon hearing the news, Maurice's health broke. He died a month later, leaving his only daughter a small inheritance from the sale of her natal home, some furniture and books, and a wealth of memories that came from a loving childhood.

Having nothing left to bring into her husband's family, the Mills merely tolerated Isabelle's presence in their household. Gerald lost all interest in her, spending his time away hunting and carousing. His dissipation shocked his sensible wife, who was left to care for their child on her own as he was given to bouts of drinking and perusing the beds of strange women. Two years previously, Isabelle's only ally, Henry, had suffered a stroke and died, leaving Cora to manage the family's various business holdings. Thus occupied, the widow had failed to notice the toll Gerald's activities were taking on her most favored child until his unexpected death eleven months ago. Having consumed a massive amount of alcohol while on a hunting trip, he had fallen from his horse while pursing a deer and had broken his neck. Cora, rather than comforting her bewildered daughter-in-law, had tightened her control over the young woman and her granddaughter until Isabelle felt she must flee or suffocate.

Sighing, Isabelle drew Lucy closer to her and planted a soft kiss on her sleeping brow. She wanted to clear her mind of these musings of the past and now turned her thoughts to the present at hand. It had taken some work and a few clandestine meetings, but she was about to embark on a new life with her daughter, far from the nightmare she had married into eight years ago. She didn't mind leaving wealth behind her. She understood what hard work and diligence could do to sustain a comfortable life, and she had worked with Mr. Shelton to secure what little Gerald's family had not squeezed out of her father's holdings into her own accounts. On the morrow she would travel far from the Mills influence and unwanted attention to a place where she could build a home for herself and Lucy. She had always dreamed of adventure and this step toward independence seemed like the greatest adventure she could have hoped for. 

Taking a calming breath, she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep, her thoughts musing on a little town in Maine called Storybrooke.


	3. Into The Wide World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration: Will You Go, Lassie Go by the High Kings

Isabelle roused herself at precisely  four o'clock in the morning. Disentangling herself from her sleeping seven year-old, she left the warm sheets and, with a shiver, slipped into her blue robe and a pair of slippers. Hastily washing her face, she donned her chemise and stockings, put her hair up in a much-practiced loose bun and dressed in a black traveling dress. After buttoning her shoes, she gently shook her daughter awake. Lucy stretched lazily and yawned, but kept her eyes closed tight and mumbled "it's too early!" before snuggling back down into the soft covers.

Grinning affectionately, Isabelle leaned close to the child's ear and whispered, "Wake up, my little Lucy, we've a _train_ to catch!"

Lucy had talked of nothing but trains on the previous day and, now, remembering what was to transpire within a couple of hours, she came wide-awake, nearly quaking with excitement.

"Oh, Mama, I forgot!" She bounded out of bed, little noticing the chill of the room. Isabelle moved to the dressing table, moistened a washcloth and began wiping the child's flushed face, removing the remnants of sleep from her excited features. Now anticipating the morning's occupations, Lucy fairly flew into dressing herself, and Isabelle had her hands full buttoning her little blue dress, getting her into her shoes and brushing and braiding her hair. Lucy's enthusiasm excited Isabelle and the two of them giggled together as they made last minute adjustments.

'Shushing' the child as they left her room, Isabelle led Lucy along the hallway, past her in-laws rooms and down the stairs. Upon entering the quiet kitchen, they found Martha already dressed and preparing the food they'd take with them on their day-long journey. Under the servant's direction, their trunks had been taken down to the carriage house the night before, loaded onto a wagon by stable hands, and had already been sent ahead to the train station. The Mills light carriage, hitched to a disgruntled quarter horse, now waited for them outside the kitchen door. After a quick breakfast of tea and soft, buttered biscuits, the trio filed inside the carriage and traveled to the train station in high spirits.

Within the hour, the little family was seated together in the dark coach, surrounded by a collection of sleepy passengers headed for the coast of  Maine . A stout, aging conductor marched smartly up the isle checking for tickets and relaying information about departure and arrival times. A loud steam whistle blew outside of the car, startling a cry from Lucy, which resulted in amused giggles from Isabelle and Martha. Lurching forward and jarring the passengers, the train's engine began straining, tugging the heavy cars northward and they slowly began passing through the bustling station.

Three faces were pressed close to the window, curious to see the station as they passed through it. That brief occupation was followed by sites of the waking streets strewn about with paper boys, venders, darkened shops, lighted bakeries, horse-drawn carriages and workers emerging from side alleys to begin their day. From there, they chugged past homes and neighborhoods both magnificent and modest, then parks and factories, tree-lined wood ways, tributaries and, finally, to open country as the sun continued to illuminate more and more in it's waking. Their path took them up the coastline, past woodland, farmland, bustling towns and quaint villages. Occasionally, they glimpsed the beaches and sandy shorelines of the  Atlantic .

The train trip took a little more than two and a half hours, during which time Lucy's bright eyes and excited chatter entertained the young widow and her happy servant. They disembarked at the  Portland station, and waited while a hired man loaded their trunks onto a flat-board buggy for the next leg of their journey. The sturdy contraption offered two bench seats located at the front of the conveyance. Isabelle and Martha were assisted aboard and settled onto the back bench with Lucy sandwiched between them, after which the grizzled driver pulled himself up to the front bench and, taking the reigns in hand and disengaging the brake, he snapped the leather straps with a sharp crack and clucked at the team.

Two brown quarter horses pulled forward onto the broad avenue before the Portland Train Station. By the time they began this last leg of their journey, the sun was nearing its zenith and the day was waxing hotter. Both women wore wide-brimmed hats, Isabelle's in black and Martha's of sweet straw, secured with gauzy scarves. Thus chapeauxed, they were shaded from the direct rays of the sun and a light breeze blowing from the ocean kept the humid air from becoming unbearable.

They traveled North and East from the port town along the coastline of  Maine , passing through a few small settlements along the now bumpy dirt road. After two hours, they stopped to stretch their legs and rest the horses. For Isabelle, the break was a welcomed relief, as she believed a few more miles along the rough dirt road would have shaken her teeth from her head. She found her posterior more than a little sore and was glad to walk off the stiffness that had settled into her lower back and legs.

For the space of half an hour, they sat on a blanket under a large oak and ate the lunch Martha had prepared that morning, sharing their meal with a grateful driver, and then were off again. The open road gave way to wooded areas shaded by tall timbers of oak, birch and maple. While offering shade from the overhead sun, the forest stifled any errant breezes that might offer a cool respite for the travelers. The trip having become monotonous, and with her tummy full, Lucy leaned against her mother and napped until they reached the lush woods that marked the outer boundary of Storybrooke, Maine.

Isabelle had never been in this modest little town. Her solicitor, Mr. Shelton, had suggested it when she had inquired of him a suitable place to move to several weeks ago. He had summered here as a child, and still had relations living hereabouts. She had accepted his suggestion, and he had made her travel arrangements for her, securing her rooms at his cousin's boarding house in the heart of town. He had even opened an account for her at the local bank, depositing her meager inheritance and arranging for monthly deposits of her income from Gerald's interests. He had been suspicious that Mr. La Fou had been instrumental in her father's bankruptcy, although he couldn't prove it, and was determined that her funds be secured against any future tampering.

Although small by  Boston 's standards, Storybrooke was clean and modern; it's streets wide enough for the comfortable passage of carriages, as well as the occasional motorcar. Most of the businesses along  Main Street had freshly painted facades and a variety of goods and services were available. The people she passed appeared friendly and respectable, and the spirit of welcome pervaded the atmosphere. Her eyes vigilantly surveying her surroundings, she discovered the whereabouts of a bakery, a handful of churches of various denominations, several dress shops, a mercantile and a well cared for stable and livery. A school house boasting three classrooms stood off to the left, it's play field featuring a stone well and several trees outfitted with swings.

The road continued near the port, where every imaginable type of fishing vessel and cargo ship were moored to a series of docks. A large cannery dominated the port area. As their drive continued, Isabelle grew more and more pleased by the variety of shops and businesses in the little hamlet, but her breath caught in her throat as they entered the town center. On the corner, facing the courthouse, stood an elegant Victorian-style building, newly erected, upon which a large clock was affixed. The clock face could be seen for a great distance and gave the town a very stylish and practical way to mark the passing of each hour. The clock tower she thought was wonderful, but below that was a sign declaring the building beneath to be a library! Ever a lover of books and learning, Isabelle took this unexpected discovery as a sign that she had chosen her new life very well.

Almost immediately, the driver pulled the team to a halt before a lovely, white, two-story house just off of the main square. A white picket fence surrounded a small, grassy yard, and red rose bushes stood in rigid lines on the opposite side of the pickets, as if keeping vigil for the owner. A narrow cobblestone pathway led through the little gate and up to the steps to the house. Mounted on the gate was affixed a black and white sign, alerting the newcomers that this was the Lucas Boarding House, their long awaited destination on this journey. Isabelle instructed Lucy to stay near the wagon with Martha, and then briskly traversed the cobblestones, up the steps and to the threshold of the house. She knocked and waited for only a few moments before the door was opened and she found herself looking at a portly, white-haired woman of approximately sixty years of age, her stern green eyes peering through a pair of round spectacles.

"Hello," Isabelle said, offering her hand in greeting. "I'm Isabelle Mills. Mr. Shelton made reservations for me several weeks ago."

Taking her hand and shaking it, the woman smiled and nodded, "Of course. I'm Mrs. Lucas. I've been expecting you." She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. "That will be your little girl and Miss Potts with John by the wagon?" Isabelle nodded. "That's just fine. I have two very nice rooms ready for you, right at the top of the stairs." She directed her attention to the driver and called out, "John, get Jack and Billy to help you bring those trunks upstairs, the first two rooms on the right." With a welcome smile, she turned back to Isabelle, who beckoned Martha and Lucy to join them.

"Just step inside Mrs. Mills and we can get you registered." Mrs. Lucas led them through the door and to the right of the foyer, and Isabelle was pleased to see that the interior was as starch and direct as the owner. The walls had been recently papered with a small, red floral pattern running vertically between thin, navy stripes on a white background. To the left was a sitting area filled with a variety of chairs and sofas covered in navy or white fabrics, sitting around a low oak table. A mantle sporting a vase of garden flowers of varying hues occupied the far wall, giving the room a warm, cozy atmosphere. From where she stood, Isabelle could see a large dining room with blue paint and at least a dozen chairs surrounding a gigantic cloth-covered table. It was simple and homey and Isabelle was only too happy to sign the registry and pay for a weeks lodging.

As the trunks were being secured, Mrs. Lucas took the opportunity to show them where to find the kitchen and dining room, how to access the outdoor garden, and the location of the washroom. She then led them upstairs and left them to settle in, advising them that dinner would be served two hours hence.

Martha retired to her own room to unpack leaving Isabelle and Lucy to settle in for themselves. Their room was quite lovely, featuring a cream colored paper with lavender prints of wisteria and violets. On the North wall, opposite of the door, stood a double bed with a wrought-iron frame of white-enameled floral patterns covered with a hand-made patchwork quilt of browns, lavenders and golds. An oak dresser and wardrobe occupied one wall of the room, their packed trunks stacked near them awaiting their leisure. In the corner stood an oak washstand holding a large basin and pitcher painted with large yellow roses and butterflies, furnished with several crisp white towels and washcloths. Isabelle was delighted to see the room also had a small, low tea table, covered with a lace cloth and topped with a clear, unadorned hurricane lamp, flanked between two hardback chairs. Fresh, floral scented air wafted through the curtains of a large window, scattering about the room a golden light from outside.

Sighing, Isabelle pulled a lace panel aside and leaned against the pane, gazing out on a manicured lawn of freshly mowed grass and bushes laden with crimson roses. She could just see a patch of the busy street in front of the house, could hear the crisp melody of children playing, horses clipping across the cobble-stoned roadway and townspeople bustling about visiting or running errands. Above was a bright, clear sky of deepening blue and bands of gulls and terns winged toward the town as the afternoon sun heralded the coming evening. She imagined she could hear the sound of the sea itself sighing restlessly, soothingly in the din of the tune the busy town hummed to her.

"Mama, where's my Emily?" Lucy asked about her doll, breaking the spell of Isabelle's reverie.

Stepping across the room, Isabelle began rolling up her sleeves. "I'm sure we put her the case with the brushes and hair ribbons." She moved a stack of hatboxes, uncovering a two-foot brown leather case and lifting it, she carried it to the bed and unfastened the buckles on the black packing strap. Meanwhile, Lucy removed her shoes and climbed up on the bed, settling beside the case as her mother opened it. Reaching inside, Isabelle removed an over-loved and much worn rag baby with a smiling, embroidered face, braids of brown yarn and a blue gingham dress. "Here she is, darling," she said, handing the doll to its eager little "mother."

"She's hot!"

"Of course she is," Isabelle laughed. "She's been traveling in a trunk all day. Why don't you set her on the pillow and you can arrange these ribbons in the top drawer of the bureau.

While Lucy set about her task, Isabelle quickly unpacked the trunk they had designated for their first week. She unfolded and smoothed over three black skirts and matching jackets, her "widow's weeds," since she was still, technically, in mourning for Gerald. She arranged them on wire hangers and hung them in the wardrobe. Next to them, she hung three blouses: two white and one dark blue, each with high button collars and long, puffed sleeves. Next to these went Lucy's dresses: one of brown and black gingham, one of blue broadcloth and one a dark green cotton with tiny pink, yellow and blue flowers. She placed a stack of folded white pinafores that Lucy wore over the dresses on the floor of the wardrobe and closed the door. At the bottom of the trunk were their combined undergarments and stockings, and these she transferred to a couple of drawers in the bureau. She and Lucy would wear their current boots during the week it would take her to locate and secure a permanent residence, so she left the remaining trunks stacked neatly against the wall.

After moistening a cloth in the basin, she took a seat on one of the hardback chairs near the tea table and ordered Lucy to bring her a brush from the bureau. Isabelle used the cloth to wash the road dust from Lucy's face, then turned her around and untied the blue ribbons securing her braided hair, running her fingers through Lucy's thick, brown tresses to loosen the plaits. Next, she worked the brush through the child's hair, starting with the ends and moving upward, loosening tangles as she went, and then finally, brushing in long strokes from the crown to the ends of the now silky strands. Gathering sections of her hair from the temples and forehead, she left the back of her hair long and loose, and secured the top locks together in a ponytail with one of the blue ribbons. Freshened and with a few minutes before dinner time, Lucy retreated to a quiet corner to play with Emily.

Taking up the still damp cloth from the table, Isabelle wiped her own face, the fabric cool and soothing on her skin and throat and the back of her neck, basking in the cool refreshment with closed eyes. Dropping the spent cloth back into the basin, she leaned against the chair, the tall back supporting her head and shoulders in a comfortable embrace. Keeping her eyes closed, she breathed in and out, in and out, slowly relaxing in the quiet room. Evening was descending on the first day of her independence, the first day of peace and hope she had experienced in many long and trying years. She had no fear of what tomorrow would bring, what obstacles might lie in her path: she didn't know what future lay before her, but she knew what the past had been. It had been like being locked in a cold and barren room, away from any comfort or interactions, with only a small window to gaze through, to hope and dream through. She had lost her family, her connections, her wealth and her naivety; but she still had her indomitable spirit, her intellect, her daughter and her friend.

Smiling tranquilly, Isabelle again absorbed the sounds and fragrances caressing her through the open window. She could smell the roast and pumpkin pie cooking downstairs mingled with the earthiness of the town outside; taste the saltiness of the sea mingled with the sweetness of the roses; hear the muffled sounds of the streets and the faint cries of gulls; feel the gentle coolness of the breeze coming off the waves and on to the shore.

_ She felt weightless, her consciousness floating on a vision of the shore at sunset, the suns amber, pink and purple rays dancing on a turquoise sea roiling rhythmically back and forth, back and forth. Foamy bubbles of salty water cascaded over her bare ankles, tugging the gritty grains of sand beneath the balls of her feet before scurrying back into the restless ocean. Gulls floated overhead as she traversed the hazy shoreline, a contentment enveloping her. She was searching for someone, felt sure he was here, searching for her as well.  _

_ Raising her hand to her brow and squinting, she narrowed her field of vision, looked further than she could have with earthly eyes into the gathering fog ahead. A few more steps forward and there, just ahead and striding steadily toward her he came. His swaggering stride was confident and he swung his arms purposefully; he moved with grace, the surefootedness of one accustomed to holding steady on tumultuous decks over rough seas. He was slight of build, clad in the breeches and coat of a seafarer, wearing a white, turtleneck shirt and a captain's saucer cap. His bearded face was lined and weatherworn, his mouth determined, as he continued toward her.  _

_ Resting her gaze upon his face, she ceased to feel herself striding along the sandy beachfront. His brown, expressive eyes called to her, grounded her. She felt for the first time in her life that she had really been seen, been heard, been known. In another moment, they came together, the sea and surf and sky and earth fading as she beheld him a breath away. He raised his hand, caressed her face intimately, and sighed contentedly.  _

_ "Ye have come at last, Belle-of-mine," he whispered, drawing her closer. Still looking into his fathomless eyes, she raised her lips to his. _

"Miss, it's time to go down to supper."

Isabelle started, her heart pounding as she opened her eyes, the sweet vision vanishing. The shadows in the room were lengthening and Lucy was opening the door to Martha.

"I'm sorry, Miss, did I frighten you?"

Shaking her head and placing her small hand over her heart, Isabelle laughed breathily. "It's alright, Martha. I seemed to have dozed off."

Smiling, Martha offered, "Well, it's been a long day."

Isabelle rose to her feet, brushed a few creases out of her skirt and, taking Lucy's hand, went down to dinner.


	4. Deciding Her Own Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Inspiration: May It Be by Haley Westerna  
> WARNING: Mention of suicide.

The morning greeted Isabelle with sunlight and promise. Having met Mrs. Lucas' other boarders the night before, she, Martha and Lucy broke fast with friendly faces and pleasant conversation. In the dining room, two rectangular tables were set end to end and covered with a long, seamless tablecloth, cut from a single bolt of muslin fabric, giving it the appearance of being one long table. Three lazy-susans made of stained oak divided the table into thirds, and upon these were heaped a simple and hearty spread: scrambled eggs, biscuits, ham, sliced fruit, oatmeal and muffins, with freshly squeezed orange juice, mugs of strong coffee and hot, steeped tea. Mrs. Lucas produced a cup of fresh, cold milk for Lucy, and Isabelle thanked her for her thoughtfulness. The table had been set with a mix of old white china and blue willowware, with mismatched cups and utensils. Used to dining in strict formality at all meals, the little family found the casual setting, friendly banter and plain fare to be uplifting and fun.

The table could easily accommodate a dozen people, and nearly that many occupied the room now. Mrs. Lucas sat at the foot of the table, nearest the kitchen, and at the head of the table was an empty chair. Curiously, a full place setting had been set before it, as it had the night before. Isabelle, Lucy and Martha sat to the right of their hostess, their backs against the inner wall of the house, giving them a view behind their companions of the street outside of the curtained windows. Walter and Agnes Clarke, a pair of newlyweds from a nearby settlement, sat down from the trio, and opposite them were Avery Hatten the haberdasher, and Dodson Goode, the bakers' apprentice. On the end across from Isabelle were Sally Anders and Marian Crumb, teachers at the Storybrooke school, and Felton Glass, a "cub" reporter for the local paper, _The Mirror_.

Gazing appreciatively at the feast laid out before them, Martha complimented the older woman, "Mrs. Lucas, this is all so beautiful, and the food smells wonderul!"

"Yes," drawled Agnes, "I'm afraid you'll spoil us!"

Mrs. Lucas smiled. "Not at all," she replied. "I always make a large breakfast to take the boarders through the day. Lunch is pretty light fare around here." She smiled and passed a basket of blueberry muffins to Mr. Glass. "Most folks are too busy to come home before evening, so I fill them up in the morning."

Hatten toasted the kind lady appreciatively with a mug of coffee, and then hastily wiped his mouth with his napkin, laying it on his plate as he rose and hurried out the door to open his shop. That action started the others who had to rush off to work, and a clamor rose for a few moments as all of the men except Clarke made hasty exits.

Sally and Marian rose and began collecting the scattered dishes to take to the kitchen, as they paid for their board with housekeeping chores during the summer months when school was out. Talk settled between Mrs. Lucas and the "temporary" guests as they finished eating, and they discovered that Walter Clarke had recently completed apothecary training and planned to open a shop in the tiny town.

"It's a good thing I married a pharmacist," Agnes laughed, "I'm so plagued with allergies that folks back home always called me 'Sneezey!'" eliciting a pleasant ripple of laughter from those who'd witness her sniffling into an embroidered handkerchief on the previous evening.

Lucy, always inquisitive, turned to Mrs. Lucas and abruptly asked, "Who is the chair at the end for?"

Mrs. Lucas smiled sadly and answered, "Why, honey, that's Mr. Lucas' place."

"Oh." The child thought for a moment and then continued, "Why didn't he come down for breakfast?"

"Lucy," Isabelle admonished gently. "That isn't your concern."

"It's alright," interjected Mrs. Lucas. Turning to Lucy she explained, "Mr. Lucas died a few years ago. I was so in the habit of setting his place that I just continue doing it."

Impulsively reaching across Martha, Isabelle patted the elderly ladies hand. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Lucas," she said sympathetically. She hadn't loved her own husband when he had died, but she had sorely mourned the connection of marriage, and she thought it sweet that the older widow had memorialized her husband's place at the head of the table, the ritual indicating her deep love for him.

The older woman smiled warmly at the young widow. "Don't fret over it, Mrs. Mills. My husband was a fine man, and very pleasant to live with. I like to think that he's still here with me, just sitting across the table, listening in to all the things you young folks have to say. It keeps me from feeling lonely when the day has settled and everyone is off to their own lives."

Isabelle gazed gently into her eyes. "That's a very lovely thought, Mrs. Lucas. Tell me, what was he like?"

"My Seth," she smiled, "was a seaman. He had a fishing boast and a small crew. He'd get up every morning, rain or shine, and put out to sea. He'd spend the day casting nets and fishing these waters, and every night he came home to me. We raised three boys. Two are in  Boston , now, and one wandered off to  Missouri , all landlubbers, like their mother!"

She gave a small laugh, and then said wistfully. "There's something to be said for loving a man you share with the sea. He wrestles with it and there are days it could have killed him, but he loved it. He finally retired when arthritis kept him from going out any more. By then, we had the house paid for and started taking in boarders and guests. He'd sit in the parlor, smoking his pipe, telling everyone who'd listen about his life on the sea. And how they'd listen! Young folks today are fascinated by those old tales. Seth died five years ago, but sometimes I really feel as if he is still here with me."

"What do you mean?" asked Martha.

Mrs. Lucas shrugged and shook her head. "I don't really know, Miss Potts. Sometimes I think I hear him come into the mudroom and take off his boots. Sometimes I smell his pipe tobacco when I pass through the parlor. And, when the sea is roused and noisy…sometimes I think I hear him call my name." She looked up at the faces of her guests, all sympathetic and a little astonished. "Don't mind me; I'm getting to be a silly old woman. I just miss him, is all."

Sally came out of the kitchen at that moment and began clearing away the food and dishes in earnest, signaling the end of breakfast. Isabelle retreated to her room to fetch her hat and purse. A bit of guilt had settled in her stomach as she thought of how much the older widow missed her husband, while Isabelle, though not glad that Gerald was dead, did not miss him at all.

** XXXXX **

The Storybrooke Savings and Loan was located on  Moncton Avenue , down three buildings and across the street from the lovely library and clock tower. Having left Lucy in Martha's care at the boarding house, Isabelle strolled purposefully down the sidewalk, noting the shops and politely nodding to passersby. Within a few minutes, she was facing a blue-gray clapboard building featuring two large, white-framed windows with a brown door between them. The building wasn't large, and didn't look like any bank she had seen before, appearing to have been any number of waterfront businesses. It had a tall, rectangular false-front over a shingled awning that covered the entrance. A wooden sign painted with "Storybrooke Savings and Loan" on both sides was suspended by a sturdy metal pipe centered over the door above the awning. The banking hours were painted on the center of the left window, and painted on the right side was the name of the bank president, Horace Cogsworth. A bell hanging over the door announced Isabelle as she entered the building.

Having judged the building from the outside as small, she was surprised when the interior appeared larger than she had expected. The room was rather cool, the sunlight filtered through half-drawn shades covering the large front windows, as if the proprietor preferred keeping the outside world outside. Despite the rather common façade of the exterior, the interior appeared somewhat exotic. The hardwood floors were stained dark, absorbing what light managed to filter in. The walls were papered with grayish-white scrolls and curls upon a dark gray background, and the walls had several arches separated by bone white pillars. As expected, the elegant room was free of any excess clutter.

A dark, waist-high counter occupied the center of the room. Behind the counter was a bookshelf, upon which was stacked various blank forms and documents, and beside it a closed, solid door leading to a back room. A small gate located between the long counter and the wall separated the business side from the public side.

Horace Cogsworth, a portly man of about 35 with a fashionable handlebar mustache, was seated at a desk behind the counter. He rose as Isabelle entered and greeted her primly, "Good morning. I assume you are Mrs. Mills?" Upon receiving her affirmative, he politely offered, "Good, good. Horace Cogsworth, at your service."

He passed through the small gate and directed Isabelle to a black lacquered desk near the window to his right. Seating her on chair of deep blue brocade, he sat opposite her in a black hardback chair and withdrew an envelope and a portfolio. Opening the envelope, he produced several documents. He explained these had been drawn up to open an account on her behalf and, instructing her where to place her signature, allowed her several minutes to read and then sign the documents. These he now set aside to be filed at the end of their appointment.

Opening the clasp of the portfolio, Cogsworth offered, "Mr. Shelton asked me to assist you in selecting a suitable property to purchase. I have here several listings that we can look over."

Isabelle smiled and nodded her approval, eager to find a home in the small town.

He opened the file and selected the top document. "Now, madam, this house is in a prestigious section of town, but it's rather small: only two bedrooms. It was once a servants quarters to the larger house before it."

"No, sir, that wouldn't do at all. Do you have something a bit larger?"

"Of course," he said, placing the listing aside. He presented several houses, most of them befitting a woman of her station, but not her income. The next six listings were rejected. He drew the next document, glanced at it and set it aside on the pile of rejected listings. Taking up the next document, he began reading it: "Here is a nice little cottage tucked back in the woods by a little lake…"

Isabelle reached for the rejected document and began reading: _Victorian style manor with modern amenities, built in 1908; four bedrooms upstairs and maids room off of large, well equipped kitchen; indoor plumbing, gas lights, hardwood floors, well insulated. Set on one acre of land with rose and kitchen gardens and balcony view of harbor; _ Moncton Avenue; $3000, negotiable._

Something fluttered warm and comforting in the widow's stomach, much like the feeling of anticipation that came on Christmas morning. _'This is perfect,'_ she mused inwardly. The house was almost new and was within walking distance from town. Interrupting the banker, she pushed the document before him. "I'd like to see this one."

Taking the paper in his hand, he gave it a cursory glance followed by a frown, and then turned it face down back on the stack of rejected listings. "I'm afraid that house is not suitable to your needs. Now, as I was saying, -"

Undaunted, Isabelle again picked the document up and urged, "This house seems very suitable, Mr. Cogsworth."

Smiling condescendingly, Cogsworth answered, "There, now, Mrs. Mills. I'm familiar with that particular property and I can assure you it won't suit your purposes at all."

Growing perturbed, Isabelle countered, "Mr. Cogsworth, I'll be the judge of what best suits my needs. I insist on seeing this house."

Cogsworth closed the folder and slid it back further on his desk. He looked up at Isabelle and she noticed sweat beginning to form on his balding pate. "Very well, madam. I shall take you to see the house, but you'll see that I am right and you are wasting your time."

"Well, sir, it is my time to waste. I have a very good feeling about this house. When can we see it?"

"Oh, immediately, madam, immediately; the sooner we get this over with, the better." Cogsworth rose from his seat and went to retrieve his hat before escorting Isabelle back out into the street and assisting her into his motorcar for the short drive to the pink manor at the end of  Moncton Avenue .

** XXXXX **

Isabelle stood before the two-story house, which rose like a small citadel between the town and the forest. It was painted a rather earthy salmon pink and trimmed in forest green accents, set on a foundation of gray stones. The house appeared to have three distinctive sections cobbled together. Offering no supporting banisters, eight wide steps made of weathered oak led up the rectangular, central structure, two entry doors painted in the same tones as the rest of the house featured small panes of colored glass. To the right of the doors, a large window overlooked a covered L-shaped porch, devoid of any furniture. A small balcony, facing eastward toward the turquoise sea, was perched over the front doors and sheltered by a gabled roof featuring masculine accents highlighting two square attic windows. From this roof, center to the residence, rose a slender chimney with a fancy pattern of red-clay bricks.

To the left of the entry was a two-story tower structure, with bay windows on both floors and a "witches hat" type of shingled roof that rose to the height of the attic windows without blocking the view. The far right and rear of the central section was a three-story, octagonal structure featuring large windows on the ground and second floor, with the third floor presenting a rather secluded balcony. The entirety of this section could not be seen from her perspective on the street, but Isabelle surmised it must run the entire back length of the house. A basement of cold, gray stone blocks ran under the house, along which several dark and lifeless windows made it reminiscent of an abandoned battlement. Upon the foreground of the house were planted shrubs of varying leaf and hue, untrimmed and void of flowers, and in the background arose the dark expanse of undisturbed forest. Most of the windows were void of curtains, and light seemed to bend around the manor as if forbidden to penetrate the glass panes to brighten the dark interior. The incongruence of the house, the wildness of the untamed grounds, the lack of sympathy in the darkened shadows of the property converged to rebuff humanity in general, like some unwanted beast snarling at the entry of its lair.

As she gazed upward at the cold structure, Isabelle felt a warm breeze slightly caress her cheeks, ruffling the scarf holding her hat in place. The hint of salty sea and roses lay subtly upon that gentle spirit, drawing a smile from her perfect mouth. The fragrance brought to mind the strange dream she had had the previous evening of the seashore and the caress of a strange brogue in her ear and her heart warmed toward the dusky manor looming over her. Turning toward Cogsworth, she happily requested, "Come, let's look inside!"

Cogsworth, who had not bothered to close the door to his touring car, stared at her agape. "Really, madam, you must see the amount of work it would take to get this place ready just to move in!"

Ignoring his protest, Isabelle was already making her way up the walk. Cogsworth closed the door and quickly caught up to her, huffing as he climbed the steps to the front porch. Isabelle stood aside as he produced a key and unlocked the front door. Pushing the door open, he nodded to Isabelle and she stepped tentatively inside. The foyer was murky in the scant light provided by the open door and dust motes danced furiously at the intrusion of her little boots as she entered, Cogsworth in tow.

Hardwood floors extended throughout both stories of the house all covered with layers of dust. The young widow continued into the house at a stately pace, her blue eyes roving from ceiling to walls to floors, taking inventory. There were some furnishings in the house, all heavy, dark, exotic and masculine: several chairs that appeared to have come from a tavern; a curious, low table of oriental design with intricate woodcarvings; a heavy wooden bench and a sea chest; and, over the mantle, two great tusks of some sea creature crossing over one another. Several carvings of wood and ivory lay strewn about, as did various navigational instruments whose functions she could only guess at. Scattered upon the walls in no apparent order were a few paintings featuring such unrelated subjects as tropical birds, a whaling boat, a beautifully executed seascape and a rather quaint rendering of some foreign village. Several fishing nets, bobbins and a harpoon took up space in one corner. An old pair of black leather boots stood next to the hearth as if the master of the house had just laid them aside and would return momentarily.

They passed from the great room into the kitchen, which proved to be most pleasing. Although as dusty as the previous rooms, it featured a modern gas stove and an icebox, beautiful granite counters and oak cabinets and cupboards. The sink was a great enamel covered basin with a water pump attached smartly to it. Volumes of light poured in through the windows, tempered with the same stained glass panels the front of the house featured. The tile-covered floors were a slate-gray color and the walls paneled with polished oak, giving it a warm, earthy feel. The kitchen was neither spacious nor ornate, but it was well planned and no expense had been spared to make it functional, practical and inviting. Off of the kitchen was a moderate bedroom with a small water closet. The room was barren of furniture and featured stark walls, wooden floors and a large window opened to the back yard. A gas heater built into the wall promised warmth through the harsh  Maine winter.

Cogsworth, growing more nervous with each passing moment, hesitantly followed her, his eyes focused expectantly on shadows and darkened corners. Throughout the tour he had futilely listed the various deficiencies and drawbacks of the house, all of which Isabelle turned a deaf ear to. She entered the dining room. The wall was void of paper or paint, simply plastered and left bare. The room featured a long, oak paneled table coated with several layers of varnish. Like everything else she had seen, it was masculine and functional. Strangely, the great table was apportioned one solitary, sturdy oak chair, set at the head of the table.

A buffet built in similar fashion to the long table occupied the back wall of the room, beneath a large, grimy window. Upon the dust laden buffet sat a delicate, antique tea set. The white china pot featured a slender spout and was elongated rather than squat and featured a simple Asian pattern of a blue flower on a stem. Arranged around it on a plain tray were eight cups resting on eight saucers, and a sugar bowl and cream pitcher. So elegant and feminine the tea service looked out of place in this house devoid of lace or flowers or delicate sentiments that Isabelle loved it on sight and nodded cheekily to its presence.

They next climbed the stairs to the second story where they encountered five doors down a narrow hallway. To her delight, one door opened to a spacious water closet with piped in water, a vanity and a working porcelain toilet. A beautiful claw-foot tub stood in the center of the room. The other doors opened to bedrooms. Two of the rooms were void of furnishings, quiet as dusty tombs stock-still in hazy light filtering through grimy windows. A third bedroom had become a catchall for fishing gear. All were as dusty and bleak as expected, but Isabelle's inner eyes envisioned them scrubbed and polished, curtained and rugged, filled with beds and bureaus, toys and sewing, a rocker, a desk and bookshelves filled from floor to ceiling with volumes of books. She imagined wallpaper and paint and color and laughter filling these rooms. The beast of a house could be a cherished home, and she felt she was born to the task.

The creak of rusting hinges echoed through the long hallway as they opened the last bedroom door of the second floor. The room was shrouded in darkness, as heavy burgundy curtains, the only curtains to be seen in the entire house, barricaded the room against the intrusion of the morning sun. The only illumination came from the dusky hallway and Isabelle hesitantly swept into the dim sanctum of the master suit. The room was chilled and dank and the dust shifted in swirls as she moved slowly into the interior, curling around her like the fog in a darkened cemetery. Cogsworth produced a box of matches from his pocket and, having been in the house on a few occasions, made his way to one of the gas lights mounted on the wall just right of the doorway. The light from the lamp seemed to flash intensively and Isabelle instinctively flinched away from it, releasing a terrified squeak as her eyes met those of an unknown man materializing as it were from nowhere before her.

Realizing the lamp had merely illuminated a portrait hung upon the wall, she took several calming breaths, her hand over her heart. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Cogsworth! I had such a fright!" she apologized.

"That's quite alright, Mrs. Mills, I understand."

Collecting her wits, she now took note of the painted features. The portrait was large, a life-sized rendition of subject's face and chest. The life-like image had been rendered by a talented hand, and was natural in color and detail. The face depicted a lean man of about fifty years, weathered, lined and stern, with high cheekbones and a long, narrow nose, the bridge of which was crooked, as if it had once been broken. The thin lips of the mouth were set in a sardonic smile, the expression frozen between annoyance and amusement, and she surmised one might easily suppose one or the other depending on the lighting of the room or the mood of the observer. A captain's hat of deep navy was affixed above the face, barely made visible afore the dark and shadowy background by reflections of light playing off its surface, and a vague coat of the same hue traced the shoulders and chest of the subject, fading into the dark background. About the neck was a white turtle-necked sweater, the weave depicted skillfully and subtly. Brownish hair peaked from under the hat and lay in wispy layers just touching the shoulders of the coat, lending a certain softness to the otherwise hard face. The man's cheeks and chin sported a beard, neither wild nor carefully trimmed, with little flecks of gray just beginning to come through. Time seemed to slow as she studied the face before her, noting the character etched in the lines about the stormy eyes of the man who seemed to stare back at her. The brown orbs, deep as an abyss, captivated her, seemed to peer into her soul, holding and sifting her. The face was at once strange and familiar to her, and she tried to recall where she might have seen it before, why she felt as though she must know him.

"Who is he?" she asked breathlessly.

"That, madam, is the former owner of this house," Cogsworth replied in a hushed murmer. Removing his kerchief from his pocket, he anxiously mopped at the sweat beading on his brow. "Captain Daniel Gold. He had this house built and then promptly died in it."

Isabelle pulled her gaze from the portrait, her attention now on the banker. "He died here? How?"

"Suicide, madam. He shut up the windows, turned on the gas and asphyxiated himself."

"How horrible!" she declared. Turning back to the image on the portrait, she searched out his stern features, the half amused smile and the determined set of the jaw, the mesmerizing eyes. She could see in the lines of his face the strong personality that went with that face, and the circumstances of his death became puzzling. He didn't seem like the sort to give up. "Why would he do that?" she mused aloud.

"No one can say. He didn't leave a note behind."

_ "Ha!" _ a voice echoed near them in the room. Cogsworth released a small whine, cringing away from Isabelle and the painting.

"What was that?" Isabelle asked.

Wild eyed with sudden terror, her guide whispered, "It's him! Captain Gold! He haunts this house, madam!"

Smiling indulgently, Isabelle returned, "Don't be ridiculous. It must have been the wind." Folding her hands in front of her, she addressed him. "I'll take the house, Mr. Cogsworth. It's perfect."

_ "Nothing doing!" _

Annoyed, Isabelle said, "Really, Mr. Cogsworth, I've made up my mind. The house is wonderful, the price is good: let's sign the papers for it today."

Cogsworth, sweating profusely and shaking with desperation, began pleading. "Please, Mrs. Mills, that wasn't me. This house is haunted, I say! This is the furthest into the house I've ever shown a client before! Please, let's go now before something happens!"

Isabelle felt a hand upon the small of her back, felt it shove her toward the door. Drawing in a shocked breath, she turned toward the terrified banker, quite piqued. "Mr. Cogsworth, I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself!"

Suddenly, the room echoed with laughter, hearty and loud. Unable to take any more, the portly banker bolted through the open door faster than Isabelle would have thought possible, leaving her alone with the disembodied laughter still issuing from some unseen quarter of the room.

Alarmed, Isabelle quickly followed Cogsworth from the room and down the oaks stairs to the front door, the laughter neither diminishing nor subsiding as she fled. She hurried out of the house and on to the porch and down the steps, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. Upon reaching the grassy plot of the front yard, she turned to face the house, the laughter still assaulting her ears. Gaping at the open entry, she witnessed the door slowly close upon the opening, the laughter suddenly ceasing with the loud click of the front door. She stood still for a moment, short breaths matching the rhythm of her pounding heart, her mouth agape, her eyes fixed upon the closed door, her ears ringing with the sudden silence.

As her shock subsided and her breathing approached normal, she turned down the walkway to the waiting car. Cogsworth, who had already started the motor, exited the driver's seat and hastened to open the passenger door for Isabelle. She started to get into the vehicle and then halted, turned back toward the house. _I will not be pushed around_ , she mused. Placing her delicate hand on Cogsworth's forearm, she said determinately, "You'll probably think me silly, Mr. Cogsworth, but I want to sign the papers for this house immediately. I mean, if everyone rushes off at the slightest sound, of course the house will get a bad reputation. But it's ridiculous, really, in the twentieth century to believe in ghosts and all that medieval nonsense."

Incredulous, the terrified man pled with her. "Mrs. Mills, you can't be serious! You heard him laugh! There's no telling what will happen to you in that house! You're in shock! You could be driven mad, killed!"

The statement buffered Isabelle's resolve. She was tired of people telling her what to do, where to go, how to live. She was determined to live her life as she saw fit, to raise her daughter and breath the salty air of the restless sea and make her way in this town, in the wide world, and no one would stop her: not her in-laws, not her modest economy, and certainly not a house that wanted to be left alone. Looking up, she directed her statement past the balcony at the front of the house to the bedroom housing the portrait of the impish captain. "I want this house, and I will have it. No one decides my fate but me."


	5. Chipped Cups and Compromises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry for the glitch that appeared with the posting of chapters, and I hope to have repaired the placement properly. 
> 
> Inspiration: Don't Give Up by Josh Groban

The week that followed the signing of the mortgage agreement was spent in cleaning the pink Victorian house and making it a suitable habitation for the small family. Isabelle hired Mrs. Lucas' handymen, Jack and Billy, to do some minor repairs, move furniture out and trim the grounds. The bulky chairs, walrus tusks and various chests and collections of nets and shipping equipment were hauled out and disposed of, while certain pieces were retained in an attic room, their fate to be decided at a later time.

Martha tackled the kitchen, digging through cupboards and cabinets, assessing the hodge-podge collection of pots, pans, dishes, utensils, crockery and glass dishes, impressed with the sturdy, serviceable pieces, retaining most of them for the family's use. Some of the nautical items that had caught Lucy's fancy Isabelle kept to be used as decorative items about the house, and the intricate Chinese table was claimed by Martha, who had it removed to her own room off of the kitchen. The only furniture that remained in its original place was the great oak dining table with its lone chair, along with its matching buffet. Isabelle loved the sturdy structure of the dining furniture and declared that it should remain. The tea set she vowed was charming and wouldn't part with it under any circumstance.

She and Martha donned old work dresses and, toiling from early light until sunset over the course of several days, soon had the house scrubbed and polished from attic to basement. Windows were cleaned inside and out and the wood floors were sealed and waxed as they worked from the second story down. Isabelle removed the burgundy drapes from the master bedroom, amused to find the late owner had nailed them to the wall, revealing a set of French doors opening to the front balcony. To her delight, it overlooked a secluded area of beach and the open sea, and she discovered there a telescope mounted on a tripod. The rest of the room was scoured, scrubbed and readied to receive her own furnishings and draperies.

The portrait of Daniel Gold she left hanging in its place near the window, finding a quiet fascination in the haunting, familiar face.

New paint and wallpapers were purchased from local merchants, and before the week was over a harmonious blend of color, style and warm elegance permeated both floors. Light, which previously seemed to shun the house, now danced in its halls and rooms through spotless windows, lending a friendly glow to the polished manor. The fragrance of pine soap, lemon oil and beeswax wafted throughout the residence and the echo of feminine speech and laughter created a melody of new life where silence once brooded.

At weeks' end, John drove the old flat board wagon up the driveway, laden with all of the furnishings Isabelle had requested of her former mother-in-law. Couches, chairs, dressers, bureaus, cases, bedsteads, wardrobes, linens, lamps, house wares and framed works were toted into the house and set about in various rooms, Martha and Isabelle directing the location, erection and turn of each item. At the end of the day, having paid and bid farewell to the hired men, Isabelle, entered the house and closed the front door behind her. With beds and furniture arrived and ready, they were spending their first night at home.

An eastern wind had come up earlier, bringing with it a bevy of dark clouds with a threat of rain. From her vantage she could hear the petulant gusts strike the sturdy house, but all inside was still, a cocoon of shelter and protection. Leisurely stepping into the parlor, Isabelle serenely gazed upon the cozy room. Gone was nearly every vestige of the former occupant. The walls were freshly papered with the subtle pattern of soft tans and gentle lavenders like she preferred. Her mother's desk and Queen Anne chair was just inside the doorway, a crystal vase filled with lilacs white roses and ferns resting on its polished top. Two black and white photographs of her parents in matching gold frames sat under the vase and stacked next to it were her father's black leather Bible and her mother's prayer book.

Isabelle let her eyes roam over the room, taking in the brown leather couch and two armchairs of blue brocade fabric, arranged on a white rug before the cold hearth. A few small, mahogany tables laden with lamps, some of Lucy's nautical items and lace doilies were placed tastefully about, and a low tea table occupied a place in front of the sitting area. The walls were bare except for a framed silhouette of Lucy and several gas lamps. She intended to check the area shops for local paintings to fill the spaces.

Sheltering the room from the gloom of the growing storm were the gauzy lace curtains that had hung in her parent's parlor, transparent enough to allow the waning light to filter in but substantial with memories of love and happiness. Standing in a room filled with the remnants of her childhood, Isabelle let the weight of the past eight years fall off of her. _This is what freedom feels like_ , she mused. Smiling, she gazed a moment at her parent's likenesses: her papa's smile big and broad and jolly, her mother's demure and sweet. How she wished they were still with her, could see Lucy grow up.

Letting her thoughts wander, she followed suit by casually stepping into the room, her hands gliding lightly over the furnishings and fabrics. A low rumble of thunder intruded on her thoughts, heralding the approaching storm. Walking over to the stone hearth, she drew out a few pieces of kindling and set them about the stack of logs that had been placed there earlier. Setting on that a nest of shavings, she struck a match and lit the tender, gradually working it up until a cozy fire glowed in the hearth, driving the slight chill from the air.

Lucy bounded into the room to announce supper, and then led her by the hand down the hallway to the dining room, a perfect blend of her furnishings and a few things scavenged from those already strewn about the house when she'd bought it. The walls there had been painted a pale blue, reminiscent of a  noon sky. She had salvaged the old seascape that had previously hung in the parlor, and it now occupied the long, inner wall of the dining room, flanked on either side by wrought-iron sconces. Mounted on the wall beside the entry from the hallway was a small cast-iron bell that had once served on an old cargo vessel. Several of the confiscated nautical items found in the house now graced the walls round about.

About the sturdy old table she'd found there sat eight matching hardback oak chairs which she'd inherited from her parents estate. Each was fitted with a checkered cushion for added comfort, and now a snowy tablecloth was cozily draped over the table and adorned with a pitcher of fresh flowers. Filmy white curtains, embroidered with twisted ivy leaves of white thread, covered the window over the buffet. They were pulled back with navy tassels, revealing sheer white panels beneath. The lovely tea set with its simple blue flower pattern stood vigil from the center of the buffet, and was surrounded by a lovely assortment of ceramic birds and some seashells Lucy had found on the beach. Splashes of flowers and lace lent the room a casual and homey atmosphere.

Three settings had been placed at the foot of the table, with Isabelle at the end flanked on either side by Martha and Lucy. Steaming bowls of hearty beef and vegetable soup had been ladled into bowls, and a platter of buttered, crusty bread filled the room with a rich, yeasty fragrance. After they were seated and had placed their napkins in their laps, each bowed their heads reverently as Isabelle said grace. Having said "amen," she glanced up and noted a certain oddity for the first time.

"Martha," she asked, "why is there a place setting at the head of the table?"

"You'll have to ask Miss Lucy that, it was her doing."

Lucy grinned at her mother, "that's for Captain Gold, Mama."

Taken aback, Isabelle laughed lightly. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"Captain Gold, the man who used to live here," Lucy answered. "That's his chair at the end of the table, so I set a place for him like Mrs. Lucas does for Mr. Lucas."

Isabelle was stunned. She didn't remember discussing the unfortunate captain in front of her daughter. "Where did you hear about the captain, darling?"

"I don't know," Lucy shrugged. "I just did." Looking up at her mother she asked, "Is it alright to set his place?"

Isabelle looked to Martha who only shrugged. Apparently, Lucy had heard the captain mentioned during the course of the move and had been enchanted by Mrs. Lucas' tradition at the boarding house. "Well…I suppose it won't do any harm. We'll be glad to welcome the captain at our table," she conceded, "as long as he behaves himself."

They continued their meal, discussing what other tasks they had ahead of them over the next few days. The storm outside grew in intensity, drawing out the lengthening shadows, and a steady rain pelted the house with a vengeance. The little family finished their meal, cleaned the kitchen and retired, exhausted to their rooms for their first night in their new home.

** XXXXX **

Lucy had been put to bed, tired from their day of cleaning and putting things in order, and had fallen asleep almost immediately. Exhausted but too wound up to sleep, Isabelle slipped into the library across the hall and, requiring something familiar to relax with, selected a copy of poetry by Keats to read before turning in for the night. She made her way downstairs, book in one hand and candle in the other, to the kitchen where she lit one of the glass lamps ensconced on the wall, illuminating the immediate area before blowing out the candle. Quietly, so as not to disturb Martha, she located the kettle and pumped water into it at the sink. She had just placed the top on the kettle when the flame from the light suddenly went out, plunging the kitchen into utter darkness.

There was no other sound save the rain pelting the window panes and the quick, startled breaths she was emitting. Glancing about her uselessly, she groped around the counter and located the box of matches. Taking one out, she struck it on the course side of the box, a flame flickering to life. She shakily relit the lamp and turned around, surveying the room. Looking about, half expecting to see someone standing beside her, she nervously smoothed her hands over her skirt and took a deep breath.

_ I'm tired and imagining things _ , she thought. Resolutely, she crossed the room, picked up the kettle and placed it on top of the gas burner. As she opened the box of matches to light the stove, the light was once again extinguished.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose as the young woman suddenly felt a presence in the pitch black room. Her hands shook, scattering several matches about from the open box over the countertop and onto the floor. Gripping the box in her hand, she gingerly crossed the room again, approaching the lamp one more time.

_ This is ridiculous, _ she chided herself.

Her thoughts strayed back to that first day here, to the manic laughter that had fairly chased her out of the house. She had convinced herself that day that her imagination had been fueled by the strange portrait of Captain Gold and the superstitious fear of the nervous banker. Surely the storm outside and her fatigue were working against her now, causing her to mistake a draft for a spiteful spirit. She _hated_ being frightened. Straightening her spine and drawing herself to her full, diminutive height, she spoke to her fear, giving it the likeness of the face on the portrait.

"I know you're here," she scolded. "You will stop this at once." When nothing happened, she relaxed a little and continued, "Some ghost. Is that all you're good for, frightening a woman in her own kitchen? Well, I'm not afraid of you. Whoever heard of a cowardly ghost? Now that the demonstration is over, I'll thank you to not interfere while I make my tea."

"Very well, madam. Light your blasted light," said a very masculine voice from behind her.

Isabelle went cold, her blood coursing through her veins like ice water. Striking a match with quaking fingers, she held the flame to the wick of the lamp until it caught and spread a soft glow about her. Turning, she beheld the very solid form of the captain.

His unwavering brown eyes, flecked with determination, bore into her shocked eyes, his mouth grim with a mirthless smirk. His arms were crossed over his chest, his feet set apart as if standing on the rocking deck of a ship. He wore no hat, and his shaggy hair lay about his head as if he had just stepped in from a windy gale. He was neither tall nor handsome, but there was a rugged strength in his compact build, and his features bore the evidence of intelligence, confidence and determination. His dark eyes stared her down, daring her to continue to stand her ground.

Isabelle realized she was holding her breath, her mouth open in shock. Taking a breath and reigning in her dignity, she pulled out the kitchen stool and sat down. "You'll . . . you'll forgive me if I take a moment to get accustomed to you?" The petite widow took a few steadying breaths, her eyes locked on her intruder. "You're Captain Gold."

"Aye," the apparition smiled and sneered, "I thought ye knew I was here, dearie."

Looking up, Isabelle coughed nervously and conceded, "I did say that, but I truly did not believe it. I thought I was imagining you."

"Ha!" the captain chuckled sarcastically. "Are ye in the habit of addressing yer imaginins' out loud?"

"Not usually," she answered. She rose and closed the few steps between them, letting her eyes roam over his scowling face. She noted that he appeared to be breathing, though she could not hear the faint sound of air passing in and out of his lungs. Curious, she placed her hand on his shoulder and found him to be as solid as any man. He was neither cold, as she expected, nor was he possessed of any natural warmth. "You're real!"

"Aye, that I am," he confirmed. "As real as anyone ye've ever encountered."

Determined not to be rattled, Isabelle drew back and picked up the box of matches, moving toward the stove as she spoke. "I'm sorry I called you coward. It must have been embarrassing to you."

"Why?" he asked.

Lighting the burner under the kettle, she answered, "because of the way you died."

"The way I died?"

"I mean because you committed suicide."

The captain regarded her quizzically. "What made ye think I committed suicide?"

"Well," she stammered, "Mr. Cogsworth said…"

"Cogsworth is a fool!" he stormed. "I went to sleep in front of that confounded gas heater in me bedroom. I must have kicked the gas on with me foot during the night." He smiled grimly. "Aye, it was a stormy night like this one, with a gale blowin' from the east into me windows, so I closed them like any sensible man would. Wouldn't ye?"

"Yes, I suppose I would."

The good captain had worked himself up. "The coroner called it a suicide because me blasted housekeeper told him I always slept with me windows open. How the devil should she know how I slept?"

Isabelle smiled brightly. "I'm so glad!" The captain looked askance at her. "I mean that I'm glad you didn't commit suicide." Her brow furrowed as a new thought took hold. "But, if you didn't, why do you haunt this house?"

Grinning, he locked his eyes on hers. "I built this house to enjoy for meself, _by_ meself. Those plans don't include a pack of strangers bargin' in and makin' themselves to home."

"Then you were trying to frighten me away!"

The captain looked down at the small woman standing so bravely before him, her face flushed with anger and her tiny fists balled. The image of a guppy facing down a great white shark struck him and he laughed. "Ye call that tryin'? I'd barely gotten started!" He took a few steps toward her, regarded the pretty glow of her face as she held her ground with her hands on her hips, and continued. "That was enough for all the others. They didn't want any part of it, I'll tell ye that! Didn't even stop to weigh anchor! They just cut their cables and ran!"

"Frightening people is just mean," she scolded. "And childish."

"Well ye didn't frighten, did ye lass?" He closed the distance between them, looked down into her velvety eyes, sparkling like sapphires in the wane lamplight. "No, ye're made of sterner stuff than most; for all that ye're small and fragile."

Isabelle pulled her shoulders back and stood a little taller. "I can take care of myself, thank you."

"Aye, and spunky, to boot."

The kettle began to whistle. Isabelle hurried over and removed it from the burner. She poured the steaming water into the tea pot and removed two cups from the cupboard as she spoke. "Well, Captain, it seems we have a dilemma."

"No dilemma, dearie. I'm sure ye'll find something suitable in the little town below."

"The house is _mine_ now" she said resolutely. "I'm the legal owner. I bought it and I intend to stay."

"Bought it?" Gold yelled. "Legal owner, be hanged! Ye and yer maid and yer brat are to leave at once, do ye hear me?"

"I won't be shouted at!" Isabelle, shaking with fury, dropped the cup she was holding onto the floor. "You can't tell me what to do! I'm sick of people telling me what to do! I will stay here, and you can't make me leave!" She stamped her slippered foot for emphasis.

At this, the Captain threw back his head and laughed in genuine humor. "Confound it madam, but ye have a backbone! Look at yer flushed face and fierce eyes! Aye, ye ran out the other day with that great, sniveling coward, but ye came back."

Recalling the incident, he remembered the determined look in her azure eyes as she had surveyed the dust and filth of the house seeing only its potential; how forcefully she had argued with the portly banker about purchasing the house; how dreamily she had gazed on his portrait, awakening in him a need to fill the void his existence had become. He calmed and asked almost tenderly, "why _did_ ye come back?"

Isabelle look up into his eyes, resisted the sudden urge to reach out and touch him again. "I…I don't really know how to describe it." She thought back to the day she'd looked the rundown house over, the pity she'd felt over its sorry state. She had seen its potential then, but she hadn't felt its pull until she'd seen the captains' portrait hanging forgotten in the darkness. It was as if his face embodied the spirit of the Victorian, and it had touched something nurturing and primal deep inside of her. Of course, she could never express it in such a way, so she chose to take a lesser road. "It's this house," she began. "The moment I saw it, I knew I must stay here. It seemed lonely, somehow. It seemed to want me as much as I wanted it. It's such a lovely house and it's a shame to leave it all alone when it could shelter so much life. I suppose you think I'm just a silly woman, but that's the way I feel."

Her eyes reminded him of the sea after a storm. Tears had risen, but she kept them in check. He felt a connection to her, as if they were bound by some slender cord. Her words, barely above a whisper, touched some long forgotten place inside of him and he found himself relenting. "Well, there might be some truth in that. I felt that way about a ship once; me first command." He gave her a wistful smile. "Aye, she were an old rust bucket with gear all afoul and a pigsty below, but she always sailed sweetly fer me."

'I can see that ye're taken with the place, fer all its odd lines and isolation. I designed it to be an oddity, sort of a dark castle meant to keep others away. It's a monstrosity, but ye love it. Well, that counts for ye. And ye didn't frighten like the others. That counts for ye, too. Ye may stay. . . on trial."

The young woman released her breath, letting tension pass from her. "Thank you, Captain." She smiled up at him, her eyes brightening to reflect her new mood. "And the house isn't a monstrosity." Stooping, she reached beneath the table and retrieved the tea cup she had dropped earlier. Turning it over in her hand, she surveyed the damage and looked up apologetically. "Your poor cup…I'm afraid it's chipped." She held it up for the captain to see. "It's hardly noticeable."

Raising an eyebrow, Gold noted that the chip was glaringly obvious. It was an old set, one of the only things he had inherited from the maiden aunt who had raised him. He had stored it during his long voyages, and had retrieved it when he had completed the house. It truly was one of the few sentimental things he owned: but she looked so sweet and repentant holding it in her delicate hand, her expression sorrowful at such a small incident after winning a battle against the apparition who no longer had a claim _to_ the object. Shrugging slightly and offering her absolution, he said, "It's just a cup."

Smiling in relief at not offending her unexpected guest, Isabelle placed the cup back on the table and poured tea for two. The captain sat at the table and took the chipped cup for himself.

"Can you drink that?" Isabelle asked curiously.

"I won't leave a puddle on the chair, if that's what ye're askin'."

"Oh," she said, sipping her own tea, her nerves calming as the heat and sweet flavor coursed through her. "Well, Captain. I suppose you'll be leaving now."

"Ye suppose wrong," he stated flatly, setting the cup down. "Why should I?"

"Because of Lucy, my little girl. I don't want her to be frightened."

"I never frighten little girls," he said dismissively.

She stubbornly plunged ahead. "Think of the bad language she'd learn from you, and the morals," she offered with a trace of humor.

He set his cup down hard, threatening to chip the other end of it. "Confound it, madam, me language is most controlled. And as for me morals," he shrugged, "I've lived a man's life, and I'm not ashamed of it. I can assure you no woman's ever been the worse for knowin' me."

"She's much too young to see ghosts!"

"And just would be the proper age, now?"

"You know what I mean!"

"Very, well, I'll make a deal with you." He leaned forward, his eyes glistening. "Leave me bedroom as it is now: the color, the furnishins', the telescope _and_ the portrait, and I'll promise not to go into any other room in the house. Your brat need never know anythin' about me."

"But, if you keep the master bedroom, where should I sleep?" she argued.

Gold grinned from across the table, "In the master bedroom."

"But…"

"In heaven's name, madam, why not? Why, I'm a spirit. I have no body: haven't had one in four years."

Incredulous, Isabelle gasped, "But I can see you!"

"All you see is an illusion. It's like a blasted lantern slide. Ye can see me only because ye believe in me."

There was some logic there, although she was sure it was _faulty_ logic. "Well, I suppose it's alright."

Gold rapped his knuckles on the table. "It's settled, then. I'm probably makin' a mistake," he groused. "I always was a fool for helpless women."

"I'm not helpless," she reminded him rather indignantly.

Rising, she picked up their empty cups and took them to the sink to rinse out. Turning, she said, "Captain, one more thing…" She was alone, the rain still pelting the window panes and an occasional rumble of thunder intruding on the stillness now settled on the room. She laughed quietly, and wondering if it had all been a dream after all, she lit the candle on the stand and blew out the lamp on the wall.

Picking the candle up, she left the kitchen and made her way up the stairs to her bedroom. In her room, she quickly exchanged her clothes for her nightgown. Letting her hair down, she brushed out the long, dark tresses, letting it flow loosely down her back, then blowing out the candle, slid under the covers of the bed. The combination of fatigue and the rainstorm quickly lulled her into slumber.

Just before sleep took her, she thought she heard a voice say, "Never let anyone tell ye to be ashamed of your figure!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could take credit for all of the dialogue between Isabelle and Captain Gold, but as I could not improve upon the original lines from the script, I opted to use some of their conversation in my own work. My thanks and acknowledgement to the most excellent writers from whom I borrowed these words.


	6. Dealing With Storms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Inspiration: You'll Never Walk Alone by Celtic Woman

Lucy huddled under her covers. A great clap of thunder had jolted her from a peaceful slumber only moments ago and now she lay shivering, frightened and alone. Looking around, she strained to see about her in the dark and still unfamiliar room. A sudden flash of lightening illuminated the small chamber for only a second; not long enough for her to get her bearings. She had been so very tired when Mama had put her to bed earlier, the toils of the day and the excitement of moving into her new home had welcomed sleep, but now, the raging storm outside drove sleep from her.

Fear replaced the shattered fragments of a sweet dream. In the rumbling blackness and wailing wind she now remembered with dread the stories she had heard of fiends who lurked in the shadowy corners of old houses. She had overheard Mrs. Lucas telling Mrs. Clark in hushed tones about the ghost of a sea captain who was said to haunt the house Mama had bought and moved them into. They said he had committed "sue-aside." She had no idea what that was, but surmised it was something bad. They said his spirit walked about the house, laughing and thrashing anyone who went inside; that a terrible fate awaited anyone who crossed him.

She hadn't given these things much credence then; after all, Mama had been in the house and hadn't told her these things happened to her. Besides, Mama would never bring her to a home where anyone would hurt her. Hadn't she moved her from Grandmama's house where people made her feel like she could never do anything right?

A rumbling clap of thunder accompanied by a brilliant flash of light shook the room, eliciting a muffled cry from the child's lips. Cold fear settled over her and as she listened to the rain striking the window panes and the relentless wind whipping against the frame of the house. Her heart was pounding in her chest and the child trembled, her eyes darting about in the darkness for the shape of some nightmare to rise up and seize her. She wailed, "Mama!" as another clap of thunder thudded the house, drowning out the child's cry.

"There now, lassie," said a soothing masculine voice, "what's all this fuss?"

Dread seized the little girl, and she huddled deeper under the thick patch-work quilt, and began crying in earnest.

"Ah," the voice continued. "It's just a wee storm is all. Nothing to lose yer head over." A moment passed as the mortified child continued to sob. "Well now, maybe a little light would be of help."

A moment later, someone struck a match and the candle on the bureau came to life. Peeking from under her covers, Lucy saw a man standing in her room, dressed in a dark coat and breeches. His dark eyes looked kindly on her, and she could see a friendly grin inside a rough beard. He looked very much like the man in the portrait hung in Mama's room and she  
whimpered in fear.

"Lassie, donna cry," he said, crossing the room and coming to stand near the bed. "I'll no hurt ye."

Unconvinced, Lucy looked up at the apparition standing solidly before her. "But you're a ghost!" she wailed. "You hurt people!"

"Now who told ye that, lass?"

"Mrs. Lucas said it!"

The captain shook his head indulgently, and kept his voice low and comforting. "Is this the same Mrs. Lucas who lays out a plate fer her husband at supper?"

Lucy stopped crying, but continued to sniffle as she pondered the question for a moment before answering with a small, quavering voice, "yes, sir."

"Ah!" The ghost winked at her. Crossing his arms over his chest, he appealed to the child's logic. "Then Mrs. Lucas knows a thing or two about livin' with someone 'lingerin' a bit from the next world." He uncrossed his arms and gripped the foot of the bed, leaning conspiratorily toward the small child. "But, Mrs. Lucas was wrong about me, well, in this case. I'll no' hurt ye lassie." When the girl continued to stare at him and looked ready to bolt for the door, he added, "Besides, did ye not set a place at the table fer me earlier this evenin'?"

Still sniffling, Lucy nodded.

"Well, thank you for that, young lady. Ye'd agree that it would be vera poor manners indeed fer me to accept so gracious an invitation an' then set about to scare ye, now wouldn't it?"

Somewhat calmed, she continued, "Mrs. Lucas said you scare people."

"Did she now?"

"Yes."

"Well, she may be right about that," he conceded. "But, to be fair, I didna' want anybody in me house."

Lucy, now subdued, peered at him cautiously. "It's our house now."

"Aye, that it is," he conceded.

A great clap of thunder sounded outside and the child cringed against her pillow and began crying again. The captain sat on the bed beside the girl and placed his hand on her head, petting her soft hair. "Ah, now, yer not a'frightened by a little storm, are ye?"

"Yes!" she bawled.

"What?" he said incredulously. "A big, brave girl such as yerself afraid of a wee bit o' rain and wind? This tiny bluster is nothin'. Ye should see a great Northern come up on the high seas."

Wide-eyed and breath hitching, he drew closer to the youngster as she stilled and listened. "Clouds as black as  midnight fill the skies, blockin' out all light 'til ye canna see yer hand in front of yer vera face. They bring with 'em great howlin' winds that'll freeze yer blood, and cut through ye to the bone. The rains are fraught wi' ice and hail as big as yer fist, all peltin' the decks and makin' ye slide to an' fro. Then, the seas rise up again' ye and the wind and the rain seem like nothin' next to the waves tossin' ye up and down, tryin' to smash ye and take ye to the bottom!"

Awed, Lucy whispered, "weren't you scared?"

"Aye, lass, and right well, too!" The captain smiled conspiratorially. "When all of creation comes again' ye, ye best be scared. But, ye canna let yer fear get the better of ye."

"What did you do?"

Cocking his head he continued, "I did what needed to be done. I had me a fine crew, well trained to deal with the likes of a storm. We worked to hold our ship together, every hand on deck securin' the riggin' and bailin' the waters tryin' to weigh us down."

"And it worked?"

Winking at the child, he affirmed, "aye, it did; got us safe to shore time and time again." He reached out with long fingers and gently wiped away the tears lingering on her cheeks. "Now then, this here house is fixed solid to the ground; no sea at it's underbelly to reach out and suck it under. And, it's built of solid timber so it will resist any wind or rain that comes again' it!"

"So, the wind won't blow the house down?"

"No, lassie; ye'll no be hurt by the wind nor the storm."

Lucy considered this as that very wind and storm assaulted the house, seeing the truth of his claims. Of course, there was still the matter of _his_ intentions, and biting her lower lip she looked up at him with puppy eyes. "What about you? Are you going to try to scare us?"

_ Smart girl _ . "No, I'm no goin' to scare ye," he promised. She looked at him skeptically, and his heart warmed to her irreversibly. She was every inch her mothers' daughter, he could plainly see, and he knew she'd gotten the better of him without even trying. Offering her a sincere smile, he leaned in closed to the girl and offered, "I'll make ye a deal. Ye stop worryin' over this here storm, and no more cryin', and I'll watch over ye whilst ye sleep."

Lucy considered his offer. He hadn't tried to scare her, had, in fact, spoken gently to her. Deciding he was telling the truth, the child offered her hand to him, sealing the deal the way she had seen adults do. "I'm Lucy," she said, introducing herself.

Taking the small hand in his own, he returned, "Pleased to make yer acquaintance. I'm Captain Gold."

Scrunching down under her covers, she allowed the captain to fluff her pillow and tuck the quilt in around her. He ruffled her hair and gave her a quick wink, and then crossed the room to the bureau and blew the flame of the candle out. The room was now as dark as it had been before, but the walls seemed now more secure and the wind and rain sounded less threatening. Another flash of lightening briefly illuminated the room, and she saw him sitting on a chair near the window, his arms folded over his chest and his gaze trained on the storm outside.

His presence made her feel content and safe.

"Captain Gold?"

"Aye, lassie?"

"You're not what I thought you were. I'm so glad."

Smiling, a feeling of warmth engulfed him. _What am I coming to?_ "Well, don't tell anyone, dearie."

** XXXXX **

Isabelle spun in front of a full length mirror on a stand in her room. She wore a sky blue silk blouse with a high collar and long tapered sleeves over a matching skirt that was fitted along her hips without being too restrictive, flaring a bit from the knees down. Her hair was brushed back from her face into a loose bun just above her shoulders. Smiling brightly at her reflection, she felt almost giddy and turned to Martha standing nearby. "Well, what do you think?"

The maid, dressed in a green gingham work dress covered by a starched, white apron, her white sleeves rolled up to her elbows, smiled back. "You look wonderful, Miss."

It was her fourth week in the house, her fourth week of living her new life. She had now completed her year of mourning for Gerald. Casting aside her "widow's weeds" in favor of "real clothes" gave her the sense of freedom she had longed for. Those black dresses had carried the weight of shrouds every day she had worn them, tying her to Gerald as if he were merely in the next room. Packing them away had felt so freeing, as if she had found the key to the shackles hindering her from living, and she felt almost weightless in the light and airy dress she now wore.

In the past few weeks, Isabelle had acquainted herself with the hamlet of Storybrooke, and she was now ready to rejoin the world of the living. She and Lucy had tramped through the little port town, meeting new people and exploring all of the shops and stores. The beautiful widow and her daughter were a welcome addition among the citizens. Martha had made inroads of her own, making arrangements with the local grocers, and the ice and dairy suppliers, so that the pantry was now stocked with canned goods and fresh produce, and the icebox had a few days supply of meat, fish, eggs and milk.

Mornings usually consisted of some household chores after breakfast. Around mid-morning, Lucy occupied herself in her room or on the porch and Martha brought tea to Isabelle's room, always in the lovely tea set that had come with the house. The maid ceased on the third morning to lend a quizzical eye regarding her insistence that she always bring two cups – the chipped cup and one other – to this morning ritual. She used this time to do correspondence and take care of the finances. Some of the time she spent speaking with the crusty apparition who shared the home with her, finding the interaction surprisingly invigorating.

Daniel himself was not much for talking, usually stationing himself at the telescope and surveying the beachfront or the harbor, while Isabelle shared with him the passages from the many books she had been accumulating over the years but had seldom had any chance to read. He, a man of action, endured these moments with longsuffering, listening until something she had read struck him as wrong, which it often did, and he took the opportunity to address the misinformation. Isabelle, having a voracious appetite for knowledge, questioned and debated him until his patience was exhausted and he withdrew himself into whatever nether region he occupied when he wasn't in her presence.

During the afternoons when they weren't going to town, she allowed Lucy to put on an old dress which she had raised the hem on and escorted her to the beach. The little girl made friends and played with the local children, running along the beach and splashing in the frothy water that ebbed and flowed upon the sandy shore. Together, they collected buckets of shells, driftwood, sand dollars and other treasures cast upon the shoreline, carrying some home and depositing others in the surf to be reclaimed by the sea. Isabelle conversed with the mothers who accompanied their own children, and sometimes she took a seat on one of the benches along the sandy stretch, immersed in tranquil thoughts.

She loved the play of sunlight on the waters as it slowly traversed its course overhead. Light refracted on the restless turquoise surface of the deep, sparkling like a cascade of diamonds spilled over a bed of velvet blue. She had always loved the sea, had felt its call deep in her veins. In the years between her mother's death and her marriage, she had dreamed of adventure, of sailing over the abyss to foreign lands, of meeting strange peoples and marking distant shores with her small footprint. She had stifled that dream during her empty marriage to Gerald, had despaired that her life was to be one endless round of social engagements and family intrigues. Here by the shore, the endless motion of the sea soothed the tension from her soul even as the salty air invigorated her body. True, living in this little town wasn't the same as sailing to far costs, but being here with Lucy and Martha was more than enough adventure for now.

In the early evening, the two would return to the beautiful Victorian house to lend a hand to Martha, finishing the chores she had started and allow the maid time to prepare dinner. Often, she found herself tending the small vegetable garden in back of the house, or turning her hand at taming the wild tangle of rosebushes struggling to grow in the previously neglected landscape. After dinner, the ladies of the house bathed, and then read or sang together at the piano in the parlor. An hour or so after the summer sun had set, the house settled and each retired to their own rooms. Occasionally, Isabelle spent another hour in the kitchen in discourse with the Captain over a cup of tea before bidding him a good night and retiring to her room to drift off to sleep.

Today marked one year and one day of her widowhood, and her period of mourning was officially over. She had just finished packing away the black dresses, veils and hats in one of her traveling trunks to be toted to the attic when the handymen finished the task she had hired them to complete in the garden. It was a beautiful summer day, the sunlight spilling through the open window and a cool, lazy ocean breeze dancing through the curtains. Martha left the tea tray on a low table and retreated to the kitchen. Isabelle felt the now familiar sensation that heralded the captain's presence: a cool shiver on the back of her neck. Smiling, she began pouring tea into their respective cups. "Good morning, Captain Gold."

"What have you done with me monkey puzzle tree?" he demanded with no preamble.

"Is that what it's called?" she asked, stirring sugar and cream into the chipped cup. Turning to him, she attempted to pass the cup to him, but he stood fast, hands on hips, and glared evilly at her. "I expect it's chopped for firewood by now."

Clenching his jaw he responded, "Hang it all, madam! I planted that tree with me own two hands!"

"Why?" Her azure eye stared expectantly into his.

"Because I wanted a monkey puzzle tree in me garden!"

"Oh. Why is it called that?"

"Because it defies the ability of monkeys to climb the blasted thing!"

"Well, there are no monkeys here." Placing his unwanted cup back on the tray, she took up her own, completely unperturbed by his attitude. "Think how much prettier a bed of roses will look there."

_ Roses she said _ . "I hate roses! I hope the whole blasted bed dies of blight!"

Sighing, Isabelle shook her head. Men, even deceased ones, were such babies sometimes. "I wish you wouldn't swear. It's so ugly."

"If you think that's ugly, it's a good thing you can't read me thoughts!"

Refusing to be baited into quarrelling, she teased, "You seem pretty earthy for a spirit!"

Daniel, unused to resistance in any form, was simply exasperated. "And ye, madam, are enough to make a saint take to blasphemy!" He noted her serene pose, determined as she was to wait for him to change course. "Blasted women! Always make trouble when ye allow one aboard."

Setting her cup down, she turned on the settee, crossed her forearms over the back of the seat and rested her chin on them. Smiling brightly, she suggested, "Captain Gold, if you insist on haunting me, you might at least be more agreeable about it."

"Why should I be agreeable?"

"Well, as long as we're living…I mean, if we're to be thrown together so much…well, life's too short to be forever barking at each other."

_ What cheek! _ Still, her determination to remain pleasant melted his agitation and he caught himself moving toward amusement. After all, the tree _was_ rather ugly when he thought about it, and he had been quite drunk when the thing had been shoved at him. Abandoning his angst, he offered her a crooked smile. "Yer life may be short, madam. I have unlimited time at me disposal." _Well, that wasn't quite true, but it sounded good._

She grinned wider, drawing him in with those fathomless eyes. "Why don't you say something pleasant?"

Lost in those eyes, he could think of a great many pleasant things to say. "That's a pretty rig you're trussed up in."

"Thank you, sir!" She picked up his cup and offered it to him again.

Taking it from her hand, he continued mischievously, "Much better than all of the ugly black ye've been smothering yourself in!"

"I happen to have been wearing mourning for my husband."

"Whom ye didn't love," he observed coolly.

Shocked, Isabelle's breath caught. Offended, she asked, "How dare you say that?"

The captain rounded the table and took the chair opposite of her. _Oh, but you're beautiful when you're riled!_ Staring unflinchingly into her stormy eyes, he said gently, "Because it's true." When she began to object, he held up his hand. "Oh, ye may have been fond of him, but ye didn't love him."

She held his gaze for a moment and then dropped her eyes to her hands folded in her lap. Worrying her lower lip in her teeth, she sighed. "You're right. I didn't love him." She raised guilty eyes to his while she made her confession. "In the end, I wasn't' fond of him, either. I loved him when we married, but I soon discovered that he wasn't who I thought he was."

The stalwart captain found himself at a loss. He had only meant to tease her, but now he had unintentionally struck a nerve in her, and confound it if he knew what to do now as he was unused to being the recipient of women's confidences. Truth be told, he had had few friends in his life who would ever have thought to share their secret thoughts with him, and now here Isabelle was, acknowledging his observation was true and silently waiting to see if he would pursue it or leave it. Here were uncharted waters indeed and, for all he knew, a colossal reef to flounder upon. This Belle was a strong woman, one who, no doubt, kept much to herself as she sailed her course. Deciding he had nothing to lose by allowing her to continue, he quietly asked, "Why did you marry him?"

Isabelle rose from the settee and walked slowly to the open French door overlooking the balcony. She stood quietly for a moment, bathing in the warm glow of tree filtered sunlight spilling through the opening. "I suppose I thought I was in love. It was what I thought it meant to be grown up, to be part of the whole wide world." Looking over her shoulder at the man seated patiently behind her she continued, "Does that make sense to you?"

"Aye, it does. Ye're not the first to make the mistake in marryin' the wrong mate. With the right mate, it would have been quite the adventure." You _would have_ _made it quite the adventure._

Smiling, she took a deep breath and then released it. _He understands_. She turned and leaned against the doorway, continuing sadly, "I thought I would find love like my parents. Gerald was everything I thought a husband should be: handsome and adventurous and confident. He courted me like he thought the moon was hung in my smile. After the wedding, it didn't take long to discover that Gerald hadn't married me, but my father's shipping business."

"Ah!' he interjected. "Ye're father was a seaman. Ye've the sea in yer blood."

"Yes. He built a shipping company with his own two hands, and my husband helped his family take it from him. After my father died, Gerald had no more use for me." She walked back to the settee and sat down, brightening. "But, I have Lucy and Martha, and a new life here in Storybrooke."

Anger seized him, a wave of protectiveness evoked in what remained of the man who stood before her. "Ye're husband was a fool, dearie."

Reaching across the table she placed her hand over his. "Thank you, Captain." Rising, she fluffed her skirt. "Well, I've no need to think of that now. We ladies are going to town to buy some rose bushes."

Rolling his eyes, the captain stood to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. "Roses!"

Taking up the tray, Isabelle walked to the door. The captain gestured with his hand and the door swung open for her. Turning back to him, she dipped in a pretty curtsy and said, "Good day, Captain Gold."

He bid her good day as she passed over the threshold. Turning to face him again, her lower lip caught in her teeth, she apologetically offered, "I'm sorry about the tree."

He grinned widely and shook his head. "No matter, dearie. Ye were right…it was ugly!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, some of the dialogue here wasn't mine. Oh, and there really is such a thing as a monkey puzzle tree, and it really wouldn't be very pretty in a garden!


	7. Desperate Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For inspiration: The Dark Night of the Soul by Loreena McKennitt

A cool breeze grazed the filmy bedroom curtains on a warm September night. Isabelle had been sleeping for several hours now and she sighed softly as she dreamed, unaware that Daniel stood quietly at the foot of the bed watching her sleep. Her pretty lips were slightly parted, the hint of a smile poised on her fair features. The lovely azure eyes were hidden from him behind closed lids, but he recalled their color perfectly. _Ah, me dear, ye are so very beautiful_ , he mused. Like one of those roses she was so fond of, but with the strength of a cliff upon which the sea slammed against in futility.

He had known many women in his life; had brief affairs at more port towns than he could count, none of which had meant anything. Most of the women he had known were a part of the life found at every port, the kind who supported their fatherless whelps on the coins gained from entertaining the sailors frequenting the taverns along the docks. They were usually good natured wenches, neither pretty nor bright, but some were fair cooks and offered a couple of weeks lodging while the ships were in port, as long as you had coin enough to "play house." He had played this game more than a few times through the years, less after he became a captain and duty demanded more of his time.

He had been born in a small village along the Scottish coastline, his name recorded in the parish records in 1866. His parents and older brother died three years later of influenza and he went to live with his mother's maiden aunt, Agatha. He had been all of fourteen when he had gone to sea for the first time. That sultry mistress had been calling to him his entire life, with her promise of adventure and prosperity, and he signed onto a rusty old cargo ship as a cabin boy. He never regretted that decision. He worked the torturous hours, learned to navigate the sea lanes and disciplined himself to follow orders. He'd survived monsoons and scurvy, injury and intrigue, pirates and unfriendly seas and unseemly companions. By the time he was twenty, he was a trusted and knowledgeable crewman. At twenty-three he signed on as an officer, and he was first-mate at the age of five and twenty. It was then he met Milah.

The daughter of a prosperous shipping agent, Milah MacGregor turned his head and captured his heart. Dark-haired and dusky skinned, at seventeen she already knew the power of her allure. He first saw her on the docks as his ship put in to  Iona on the western coast of  Scotland . She had accompanied her father as he met with the ship's captain and Daniel had been appointed to entertain the lovely girl in the interim. He had accompanied her as she walked along the dock, visiting venders and making small talk. She flirted shamelessly with him and he fell for her charms like an untried schoolboy. Their ships company wintered at the port, and he found himself her escort at every social event of the season. What he lacked in station was overruled by his reputation and ability. He soon found himself engaged and then wedded to Milah. In a matter of months, he received his first commission as captain of his own ship, a fine whaleback steamer, the _Dark One's Dagger_.

The 428-ton barge was 193 feet long and 21 feet in beam, with a cargo capacity of 1200 tons. Over the next two years he sailed the shipping lanes between  Europe and  America , transporting spices, dry goods, food and commodities between the countries, increasing his father-in-laws coffers greatly and managing to spend a few weeks here and there with his bride. Christmas 1888 brought a son, Baelfire Rory Gold. Having grown up without a father, he vowed he would never leave his own son, so he gained permission to stay in port to work in management and enjoy the comforts of home. He relished the time he spent with his young son, but soon realized his marriage had turned cold.

At first, he attributed Milah's growing aloofness and biting tongue to having become accustomed to him being away at sea for months on end, and reasoned more time spent together would mend the rift between them. It wasn't long before he realized she had simply grown tired of him. Arguments erupted and Milah began to show him a side of her that he never knew existed. Always looking for adventure and intrigue, she found it in the arms of another man and left him, taking their son with her. To save the family embarrassment, her father arranged for a quiet divorce for his daughter and moved her and the baby to an estate in  Glasgow . His fifth wedding anniversary saw him abandoned, alone and drunk in a tavern, his son and wife well away from him.

Daniel didn't want to flounder in his own juices, become just another ruined seaman cast adrift with no hope of charting the course of his life. He formed a plan to settle in  America : to build a prosperous business of his own and then invite his son to get to know him, to take part in a business he would leave to him. He'd taken the first commission available, a cargo run along the coast of  Africa . Over the next four years he worked relentlessly, traversed every sea route between heaven and hell, banking everything he earned. He knew every port, civilized or not, every shipping company and cargo warehouse. When he'd saved enough, he prevailed upon his ex-father-in-laws sense of fair-pay and purchased _The Dark One's Dagger_ for himself, putting out to sea as captain and owner.

Most of his hauls took him between the ports of  London and the Eastern coast of  America , transporting iron ore and finished products, cotton, foods and commodities. He gained a reputation as a more than efficient businessman and a worthy captain, working magic in the shipping industry. He made lucrative deals sailing all over the world, and within a few years he was turning a good profit. Gold embraced his new life, lonely as it was, and found fulfillment in bringing success to his plan. Every port, city and village he had visited, every man he had done business with, and every glacier, sea creature and wave he encountered wove a tapestry of experience that enriched his solitary life. In the end, it had been a good life, one that any man would envy.

After ten years of pursuing his business, Gold scouted for a place to live and chose the small town of  Storybrooke ,  Maine . He promoted his first mate to captain and tasked him with carrying on his shipping trade while he began putting all of his plans into action. After purchasing an acre of land overlooking the sea, he met with a local builder and submitted his sketches for the manor. He had drawn the lines of the house over and over again through the past years, cobbling together all of the features he had liked on houses he had seen while visiting various port towns. The color of the house he left to the contractor, who in turn had consulted _his_ wife. Well, that decision had turned a lot of heads!

His son was now 17 years old, and he wanted to put everything in place to bring him over from Scotland, to offer him a prosperity he could help fashion with his own hands, to make up for years of absence. He commissioned a local artist to paint a portrait of him, intending it to be a gift for a son who had not set eyes upon his father's face for many a year. With a schedule constantly filled with important work and engagements, he never seemed to find the time to send it to him.

The house completed, he used the rest of his savings and took out a sizeable loan to build a cannery on the nearby harbor. The town welcomed the new business. Fishermen from up the coast began bringing their catches to the new cannery, a few even moving into Storybrooke with their families. He hardly had time to furnish and paint the interior of the house in favor of setting up and maintaining operations at the cannery. Business was growing, so he built an office up the street from the dock. He extended his love of unusual lines to this new building, featuring a series of arches, the front windows offering a wide view of the street and the dock front. He could see the clock tower from his desk.

The townspeople enjoyed the promise of new commerce the captain's endeavors brought them, even if they found the captain himself a bit brusque. Never having been one to accumulate friends or associates, he conducted business and, at the end of the day, returned to the pink manor to eat and sleep alone: he made no friends and had no social life. He dreamed of the day when he would pay off his business loans and begin making substantial money. He lived for the day he would bring his beloved Baelfire to  America and into his life. Twenty years after the birth of his son, he was near to his goal.

** XXXXX **

It was a cold November night when he had returned to his house after closing his office. Heating a pot of beef and vegetable soup, he took a bowl up to his frigid bedroom and sat at a side table by the unlit fireplace while he opened a letter from Bae. He had had infrequent correspondence with the boy for a number of years due mostly to his extensive travels though, over time, he had sent more letters than he had received. He routinely sent money to Milah for the boy's care, but he had heard nothing back from her. Occasionally, Bae answered his letters, usually polite responses that offered little real information about the boy's occupations or aspirations. Some months back, he had posted a letter explaining his new business venture and his intention that his son join him, see the operation for himself. He invited the young man to his Storybrooke home, in the hope of making it _his_ home.

The letter he read that night was not the welcome news he had hoped for. Baelfire politely declined his offer for now in favor of accepting a commission in The Royal Navy, and he had already set sail along the coast of  Africa to patrol Her Majesties colonies. Daniel sat in dejection for a while, nursing a flask of whiskey and fuming. Well, all that work only to come up short. Still, it wasn't a total loss, he finally concluded: the boy would know something of the world he was offering him, of ships and the fickle sea, would know how to command men at the end of his commission. He could continue building up his shipping business and the cannery, making it even more profitable when Bae joined him: not a setback, merely a delay. Disappointed, but determined to wait a bit longer, Daniel fell asleep in the chair beside the cold hearth, dreaming of his son.

He remembered slowly becoming conscious in his darkened room. Standing near the doors to the balcony, he was a bit confused as to how much time had passed or what he was doing, how he had gotten there. His limbs were sluggish, and he turned slowly about, surveying the darkened room, seeing nothing. Wanting to let in the moonlight, he reached out to pull aside the curtains covering the balcony doors. Odd . . . he couldn't seem to move them, but then, he had nailed the curtains to the casement above the door. He felt strangely detached from the moment, as if he were still dreaming: more of an observer to his actions rather than the actor himself. A faint luminescence began to dissipate through the gloom, although he couldn't tell where it originated from.

The captain felt a prickling sensation as the radiance began to grow, noting how his skin seemed to have taken on a translucent quality. Interesting that he wasn't disturbed by this. He looked at the empty bed, the covers smoothed neatly as they had been the night before, and at the cold fireplace. _It's freezing in here_ , he thought, _but I donna feel it._

He turned to the chair he kept near the writing table and saw himself there, his eyes closed, his face slack and bluish. _How vera strange_. He thought he should be startled by this sight, but he felt only mild curiosity in spite of seeing himself in this manner. Approaching the body, he reached out and touched the still cheek before him, feeling the sensation along his own cheek. _I must be dreaming this_. Fear began building in him, driving back the sense of peaceful wellbeing associated with the soft illumination continuing to grow around him.

It was then he saw the open gas jet near the man's foot.

"Wake up!" Panicking, he demanded of the form before him rouse itself. Grabbing the lapels of his jacket, he began shaking the body. His alarm rising in full force, he screamed, "Wake up! Wake up ye fool!"

Releasing the man, he backed away in horror. _What have I done?_ _I'm dead!_ Realization hit him, his heart turning to stone inside him. "My God!"

The soft iridescence permeating the room began to swirl around him, and the calm he had felt when first rousing returned, caressing him, leaving him with a feeling of relaxed contentment. He turned away from his body and saw what appeared to be a bright center to the _netherlight_ clamoring silently around him, drawing him in, and he sensed it was a place of peace and repose, engulfing him with a desire to draw closer to it.

It was right to go there.

He had the sensation of floating as he approached the cool, radiant center. . . here was connection to peace, a place to shed the drudgery of this world, a sense of family . . . _family . . . family_. . .

_ Family . . . Bae _ ! Everything he had worked to give his son, to reconnect with him, to establish a place for his family, gone to ashes in one night. It couldn't be!

Without a second thought, he stopped and began fighting the calm lure of the _netherlight_ drawing him in. "NO! GET BACK," he cried out. "I'M NOT GOIN', DO YE HEAR ME?"

The caressing tendrils of phosphorescent energy gently wrapped around his limbs, insistently pulling him inward and he earnestly began to struggle. He made no progress at first, his ethereal body having no muscle or physical qualities to deter the sweet and steadfast draw. As his anger and determination grew however, the forward momentum stopped: strength returned to his ethereal limbs, pulled against the restraints of eternity sucking him in and, breaking free, he staggered back into the shadows were his body rested.

Glancing down at the table, he saw there a ceremonial dagger he had commissioned after purchasing his ship, bearing the name _"The Dark One's Dagger"_ inscribed onto the curved blade. He grabbed up the knife, wielding it in front of him, threatening the source of light trying to engulf him. Planting his feet firmly on the oak floor, he felt weight return to him as if he were solid rather than spirit. Gripping the dagger, he held it before him and released a primal scream.

"I WILL NOT GO WI' YE!" he raged, "GET OUT! GET OUT OF ME HOUSE!"

Quietly, though neither subdued nor driven away, the _netherlight_ receded, dissipating into the shadows and leaving Daniel alone, a spirit separated from his body. He stood trembling, poised for battle lest eternity return to reclaim him.

After several minutes proved him quite safe for now, he relaxed his guard and placed the dagger in his belt, returning his attention back to his body, his corpse. He had seen death many times in his life and knew the meaning of what lay before him. He peered into his lifeless face; saw closed eyes, grayish skin, a slack jaw. It was obvious that he had been dead for some time before his spirit had become aware of the fact, and he found it strange that he had no recollection of the gas filling his lungs, displacing oxygen and stealing his breath away. There had been no struggle, no valiant fight to hold on to his life, to realize his dreams or fulfill his destiny. Death had been rather anti-climatic, after all.

Grief seized him as he dropped to his knees in despair. He grabbed his hair with both hands as a great sob wracked him. For minutes or hours the spirit of Daniel Gold wept bitterly at the feet of the body he once animated, mourning the loss of everything he held dear. He had worked so hard, had lost all he had built of a dream to share with his son; now any hope of making that connection was utterly, dismally gone. Regret flooded him, threatened to consume him. In the end, Bae would be forced to forge his own path without his father, and was even now embarking on a life that had no place for Daniel or for the legacy he had built to share with him. He had no memories of the father who had nurtured him as a baby, only to be forced out of his life while still young and unwillingly absent throughout his childhood. Bae would never know how much his father had truly loved him beyond the polite expressions he had sent him in too few letters.

Everything he had worked for was now just so much dust, Daniel realized as he poured out his anguish over ' _what might have been_ ' on the floor of an empty house.

** XXXXX **

With no other options and no means of influencing the world he lingered in, Daniel existed within the confines of the beautiful Victorian manor, haunting the dusty halls in frustrated solitude. He thought constantly of Bae, worried that he would wonder at his father's sudden withdrawal, anxious that his interests would be lost and he would leave no legacy to his beloved boy and to the generations that would come after him. In the end, he realized that he had been so busy trying to build a future with his son, that he had neglected to forge a present with him. What a vain effort that had been! Within a year, his business properties were sold to cover the loans he had taken out against them and the operations he had filled his last few years with now prospered under new owners. His ship had been auctioned off to cover lost contracts and the crews' salaries.

He had heard of these losses when that annoying banker, Horace Cogsworth, arrived one drizzly morning about a year after his death. Hearing the key turn in the lock, Daniel materialized in the foyer in time to see the portly Cogsworth lead thin, wiry gentleman inside. He recognized Milah's suave, French solicitor, Jean Lumiere. The Frenchman proceeded to look over the property with an expert eye, evaluating the worth of the residence with a feigned indifference. They traversed the dusty hallways making notations of the strange furnishings and myriad collections scattered haphazardly through the rooms, the unseen captain following and quietly observing them, wondering what had brought the swabs to his home.

"As you can see, sir," Cogsworth advised the solicitor, "the rooms are spacious. A bit of paint and paper and some liberal cleaning and we should be able to sell the property for a tidy sum." _Sell?_

Looking around with approval, Lumiere responded, "Oui, the house is exceptional; a bit odd, but well built." _Of course it is_.

Cogsworth smiled thinly. "Of course, Messieurs Lumiere, you understand we are offering your client a very generous sum under the circumstances?

"Generous?" he asked, "maybe not so much, eh? After all, the house belonged to Lieutenant Gold's father."

"That's true," the banker returned, "however, the late captain owed much to the bank and we had to sell off all of the other properties to cover our losses. The captain left no will, but his wish to stake a future for his son was known to the Board of Directors. It was their earnest desire that we offer the young man the choice of taking up residence in the house."

_ They're offering the house to Baelfire? _ The thought of Bae living here brought a wave of hope and happiness he hadn't felt in many years. Even if it were true that the business venture he built was gone, just having Bae here would more than suffice for the loss. Perhaps there would be a way to communicate with him, to tell him how to rebuild, to at least let him know how very much he had always loved and how badly he had wanted to be with him. If not, then just watching his beautiful boy enjoy some of the fruits of his labor would suffice.

Lumiere shook his head sadly. "I am sorry, my old friend, but the Lieutenant wishes to decline the offer in any case." He drew the rim of his bowler hat in nervous circles through his hands as he spoke. "The young man had a very distant relationship with his father, knew him only through letters. He had planned to join the captain once his terms of commission were up, but the circumstances of his fathers, uh . . . unfortunate demise . . . has caused him to reconsider such a move."

_ What? Bae didn't want to come after all? _

"Yes, I understand that a letter was found from the young man when the captain's body was discovered in his room upstairs," Cogworth offered. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. I guess the old boy read into it his son's rejection of all of his hard work and decided to gas himself."

_ Gas himself? On purpose? What was this idiot talking about? _

Lumiere commiserated, "oui, very sad indeed. Truth be told, young Gold held a certain fondness for his father, if for no other reason than that it annoyed his mother so much. He was quite shocked when he learned the circumstances of the captain's death, took it rather hard," he shrugged. "As it stands, he would not be comfortable in a house where his father had taken such drastic measures over a simple misunderstanding."

_ Suicide? They thought he killed himself?  _

"I understand," Cogsworth sniffed. "The scandal of suicide would only taint the situation further. It's best the young man make a clean break of it and make a life for himself where he is."

_ No, no, no! What colossal fools _ ! Anger replaced hope as he realized what was happening: his son had been told he had killed himself because he believed Bae had rejected his offer. Frustrated and angry, he growled, "Enough of that, ye blaggards!"

Cogsworth gasped and turned to the Frenchman. "I beg your pardon?"

"For what?"

Cogsworth looked at him, confused, and then smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, sir. I thought you had said something."

Lumiere smiled. "I said nothing. Let's discuss my client's terms." He clasped his hand on the banker's arm and led him to the dining table where he set his valise down. Opening the valise, he withdrew several pages of a contract for the banker's review. "We propose that your bank sell the property for a fair market value and send the proceeds to young Gold in  Scotland ."

Daniel stood behind the two men, seething in anger, his temper heating as the seconds ticked by. Lost! All lost! Now these fools intended to sell his legacy to some stranger and just send a pittance to his son? And his son would be left to believe he had abandoned him forever? How ludicrous a situation he had found himself in! Seething, he turned his rage against the two men deciding the fate of his holdings as if the culmination of his life's work were of no consequence. Grinding his teeth in a grimace, he audibly growled and strode toward the two unsuspecting businessmen, his boots pounding the floor as he approached. Bellowing in anger, he withdrew the dagger from his belt with one hand and used the other to wrench the papers out of the Frenchman's hands. Tossing the papers down on the oak dining table, he stabbed the dagger through the center of the contract and hissed through clenched teeth, "get out of me house, ye blasted bilge rats!"

The banker and the solicitor turned incredulous eyes toward one another. Taking in their shocked expressions with more than a little satisfaction, Daniel began laughing maniacally.

Grabbing his hat in one hand and his valise in the other, Lumiere beat a hasty retreat from the dining room, leaving the contract skewered to the table. Cogsworth, seated at the head of the table, had a little more difficulty extracting his bulk from the chair, but soon followed suit. _Aye, ye've got 'em on the run now, Danny boy!_ Still laughing, the captain followed them purposefully down the hallway and through the front doors onto the porch, smugly watching as the terrified men clamored into Cogsworth's motorcar and left without so much as a backward glance.

Satisfied that he had successfully ousted the unwanted vermin, Daniel returned to dining room to brood and read his boys' name over and over again on the abandoned contract.

** XXXX **

The next four years were spent in lonely vigil over the pink manor at the end of  Monton Avenue . Daniel sincerely hoped that his son would find it in his heart to come to him, if for no other reason than to settle the estate, but he never did.

Cogsworth, having the burden of disposing of this, the captain's final property, attempted to send a few men over to clean, paint and ready the place for auction, but Daniel had no desire to see anything touched and drove them away. From time to time, the nervous banker would put on a brave face and bring potential buyers to the house. It became Daniel's only sport to let them take a good look before "shivering their timbers" with his ghostly laughs and disembodied shoves through the front door. It didn't take long for the house to get a reputation. The town folks readily regaled citizens and visitors alike with tales of the disturbed, old sea captain who had taken his own life and now walked the floors of his former abode like a monster in a dark stronghold.

His existence was strange, to say the least. With no body and no subjugation to the physical properties binding the living, he could readily materialize anywhere he wished within the grounds and confines of the residence. He had no need for food or drink, although he found he could consume substances with no ill effects. Of course, he could not taste them nor, therefore, derive pleasure from them. He had no need for air, yet found that his ethereal body kept the habit of breathing just the same. He found that, in his "natural" state, he remained undetected even while occupying a room with the living, but with a simple desire to _be_ seen or heard, could at any time make his presence known. He could pass through objects as if through air, or could affect them as if he possessed the physical faculties to do so. He had no idea how this worked, or what metaphysical laws governed these abilities, nor did he care.

During these years, he never ventured beyond the confines of his residence or the beachhead it overlooked. If he crossed some boundary that lie even a short distance beyond his restricted realm, he'd find himself materializing somewhere within the confines of his own house or grounds. He began the occasion completely aware, alert and attentive, and then suddenly he was somewhere else, in a different aspect of time and space having never been conscious of fading away or of what state he had been in during his absence. Sometimes he lost only a few minutes, and other times he'd realize that days had passed without his awareness. He did not know just how far or even _if_ he could travel outside of the bounds of this perimeter, but he knew instinctively that doing so would be at his own peril. This restriction kept him from striking out and finding Baelfire himself, and so he waited and hoped his boy would come to him.

His physical limitations were frustrating enough, but he was, on occasion, assaulted by the _netherlight_ that sought him out from time to time. The beguiling luminance would calmly steal into his lonely afterlife at times when he had drifted into a quiet sort of contentment, enveloping him with a longing to enter its tranquility, to pass from this material world into the next realm. These were times when he became lost in thought while gazing at the stars through his telescope on the balcony or while reminiscing of holding Bae as a young child. His resistance on these occasions not been violent as it had on that first night. He simply ignored it, stubbornly clinging to his current state and willing the invitation to eternity to fade away. As the years had passed and his anger had cooled into disappointment and then longing remorse, these moments had occurred more frequently. As it was now, only a few weeks had passed without the ethereal visitation.

He realized he merely postponed the inevitable and that, one day, the Source of the _netherlight_ would claim him and take him away to a place from where he could never return. For the time being, he had no desire to discover a reason to pass into this new region, so he stayed, firmly attached to a world that no longer wanted him. It was his purpose that kept him here, his determination to find a way to tell his son how much he loved him.

The most recent encounter had come just days before the vibrant young widow had moved in. On this occasion, he had materialized while walking the beachfront on a foggy evening, feeling more like he was dreaming than experiencing any reality. There were a few vague images of caressing a woman on the beach, the experience lingering in wispy images he vaguely remembered sometimes. He had felt contentment in the visions arms, as if finally finding rest after years of frustration. One moment he was kissing the dream woman, and then she was gone, Of all of his past encounters with the _netherlight_ , this one had felt most like heaven and was, therefore, profoundly difficult to resist. Indeed, it had seemed as if the dream woman had herself awakened and been wrenched from him; otherwise, he would have been content to stay with her forever.

Strange, but when he reminisced on this strange encounter, he envisioned the enticing young widow as the woman he had come to claim in his vision.

Now, he stood in reverence at the foot of Isabelle's bed, drinking in the sight of the sleeping woman before him. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, the kind of beauty that wouldn't fade with age. Her skin like honeyed cream, her soft, chestnut curls, her expressive mouth and perfect sea-blue eyes held him captive, enchanted him in a way that he had never known in life; but her physical perfections were nothing compared to the beauty of her very soul. She was intelligent, able to converse with him on myriad topics, eager to learn new things, thoughtful and perceptive. She eagerly drew him out - his opinions, his history - and shared herself with him unabashedly. She was kind and sensible, a wonderful mother and true friend.

Daniel had lived a solitary life, had been duped in love and deprived of his son; had worked and slaved away his years in a self-imposed servitude to a hapless dream that, in the end, had been dashed on the crags of a life cut short, only to die a meaningless death. Now, he lingered in a purgatory between a life of regret and a future unknown. He had shunned intimacy and friendship, and had forged no meaningful connections, a desert in the middle of nowhere that had succored no life in its bareness. In contrast, Isabelle was a bountiful island, calm, lush and nourishing in the midst of a stormy sea, offering him a welcome harbor to which he readily anchored himself.

He liked to think, had he lived, that he would have met her one day on the beach as she played with Lucy. She would have smiled at him, introduced herself in that forward way of hers, and he would have kissed her hand, feigning it to be an old-world custom of his homeland. He would have managed to be on that beach whenever she was about, would have worked his way up to asking her to dinner, managed to court her, to win little Lucy's heart. In the visions he made for himself - when she reposed for the night and couldn't read his desire for her in his eyes - he asked for her hand and she gave it willingly.

These visions stirred emotions he had long since pushed away, feelings of happiness, home and hope: feelings of love and being loved in return. What would this young woman have thought of a man, old enough to be her father, entertaining such foolish notions? And what good were those thoughts when he was, in fact, beyond offering her any kind of relationship?

Yes, he realized he was in love with her; it was easy enough to admit when he realized that his soul had anchored itself onto hers, but he also understood there was no hope for her to love him in return. The reality was, he wasn't really in her world, the world of the living. His world was as far away as the instant that he accepted he _was_ finished with this life that no longer had a place for him. That tide was coming for him as surely as the slow, quiet breaths Isabelle drew in her sleep. He had no more to offer her than he had to offer his son, but still he wanted to hang on longer, to be something more to her than an illusion to drink tea with. He loved her and wanted to protect her, to earn her love in return: to what end, he did not know. He just wanted something meaningful to leave in this world and something equally meaningful to take with him into the next.

And so, with the rising sun stretching its pearly fingers through the wafting curtains to kiss her cheeks with morning, Daniel smiled and decided to do what good he could for her in the time he had remaining.


	8. It's Forever, Dearie!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Inspiration: The Rocky Road to Dublin by the High Kings

"Good morning, Captain," came a cheerful voice from the doorway as Isabelle entered with a tea tray.

It was a fine October morning. Earlier, she had pulled the curtains aside and flung the French doors wide open to let the day infiltrate the house with the crisp smells of decaying leaves and cooler sea air. Autumn had kissed the landscape, consigning leaves of bright orange, red and gold to wave gently in a cool breeze.

Daniel had materialized on the balcony soon after, and was using the telescope to watch the fishing boats scuttling along the harbor and gulls hovering over the ceaseless surf. He tried to shake the bite of melancholy that accompanied the feelings of being tied to the house when he could hear the sea calling him. He turned his head when he heard Isabelle's greeting, their morning tea balanced in her hands as she pushed the door closed behind her with a dainty foot. She was wearing a white cotton blouse and fitted gray skirt, her hair pinned up in the loose bun she wore when she helped Martha with the household chores. She never looked lovelier.

"Good morning, madam," he answered distractedly. Leaving the telescope, he approached the railing of the balcony and leaned on his elbows, his hands clasped in front of him. Sometimes he thought he could almost smell the salty sea air, feel it caress his hair and face or taste its briny breath. He felt Isabelle come up beside him and place her delicate hands on the railing to share the view with him. How full of life she was: no longer pale, as when she had moved in, but with a blush of color on her cheeks and her hair shining in the sunlight, giving her a healthy, radiant glow.

"You miss it, don't you; the sea, that is?" she asked him quietly.

Nodding, he answered, "aye, sometimes vera much."

She looked up at him sympathetically. "My father used to miss it sometimes. He'd take me down to the docks to watch the ships come in. It was so exciting seeing all of the cargos unloaded and the seamen from all over the world walking around the docks."

Daniel laughed. "I can see ye now: a fat little girl in hair ribbons."

"I wasn't fat, I was skinny!"

"Just as bad," he teased.

"And, I wore my hair in braids," she laughed, "and had a thousand freckles!"

He stole a glance at her. "Ye still have freckles."

She glanced back at him. " _Aye_ , I've quite a few now that I've spent so much time in the garden."

"They're vera becomin'," he admitted.

Blushing prettily, she smiled and said, "Come in to tea before it gets cold."

He followed her inside and she sat on the settee. After pouring tea into the chipped cup, she handed it off to him before pouring herself a cup. Isabelle loved this time she spent each morning with Captain Gold. She had gotten to know him, and now she liked him, liked him very much. He was her friend and she could talk to him about things no one else could understand. Besides, he was the most interesting person she had ever conversed with. He had been all over the world, had seen far distant places and talked to people from every walk of life. When she was young she had dreamed of adventure, of seeing how others lived and experiencing the world. People had always thought her odd to be interested in such things, but the captain told her tales of his life and his adventures and she listened with rapt attention as she sipped her tea.

It occurred to her that he had told her countless stories of his travels, but very little about himself, and her curiosity was peaked. "Tell me, Captain, what kind of boy were you?"

"Absolutely horrid!" he boasted, "all lean an' lank an' into mischief."

Isabelle giggled. "I would have been disappointed to discover you were an alter boy."

"Oh, but I _was_ an alter boy," he admitted. "The local school was run by the vicar, an' he insisted on us knowin' as much about the catechism as we did _'the subjects.'_ He taught us carpentry as well, sayin' every man should have more than one interest so's he could keep himself wherever he was."

"And, what about your parents?"

"I don't remember them," he answered. "Raised by a maiden aunt from the age of three after me parents died. She were a stout woman with a sharp tongue an' a swift swat on the _arse_ whenever I misbehaved, which I did a'plenty." He chucked at the fond memory. "Your Miss Potts reminds me of her."

"Martha?" Isabelle asked.

"Aye. She's a good woman an' a help to ye in rearin' yer own." His smile faded as memories pressed him. "She didn't agree with me decision to go to sea: thought I'd come to ruin."

"What did she do when you left?"

Smiling fondly he said, "Oh, she probably thanked heaven there was no one around to fill her house with mongrel pups and track mud on her carpets."

"Did she write to you?"

"Every Sunday for seven years. I was at sea when she died."

A flicker of sadness crossed Isabelle's face. Ever in tune to the mechanisms of her lovely features, he frowned and asked, "What are you thinkin' about, dearie?"

She smiled wistfully and answered, "I'm thinking about how lonely she must have felt with her clean carpets."

Daniel nodded and sipped his tea, thinking of the old aunt who he hadn't thought of for many years.

They were interrupted from outside by the noisy clatter of horses and wheels as a carriage pulled up to the house. Returning to the balcony, Isabelle and the captain peered down into the yard and observed two women alight from a rented carriage.

"My blasted in-laws!" Isabelle exclaimed. A combination of irritation and dread welled up inside her. "What are they doing here?"

_ Now there are some strong sentiments.  _

Isabelle went back into the room, completely agitated. "Quick! Hide or – or go away or decompose!"

"Dematerialize, madam."

"Whatever it is, do it quickly!"

_ Oh, this is going to be fun _ . "No need. They can't see me or hear me," he smiled wickedly, "unless I want them to."

"Then _please_ don't want them to! I'll get rid of them!"

With a wicked grin, he planted his feet apart and rubbing his hands together. "Allow me, dearie, I've had plenty of practice. Say the word an' I'll keelhaul them!"

"No!" Isabelle returned, horrified, "You're not to do anything!"

"Well. . . Isabelle. . . talking to yourself?"

Isabelle stilled and looked into Daniel's bemused eyes, and then turned to face Cora and  Regina , standing just inside the bedroom door. Behind them, Martha shrugged apologetically.

"Mother Mills,  Regina ," she said smiling. "What a surprise."

Cora stepped forward, a concerned frown on her face, and took Isabelle's hand, sending a chill of revulsion through her petite frame. "We've been meaning to visit as soon as you settled in, dear. It appears we came at a bad time."

"Not at all, Mother. I was just having tea and going over some correspondence." Isabelle attempted to direct Cora to the door.

"We've come at tea time? How lovely, dear." Cora withdrew from her daughter-in-law and firmly settled herself on the settee. Waving a hand airily toward the maid, she instructed, "Martha, bring some fresh tea and cups."

Muttering under her breath, Martha cast an indignant glare in her employer's direction before she retreated toward the kitchen. Isabelle looked at Daniel, cringing inwardly at the evil grin on his face as he waited patiently for the scene to play itself out before him. No help there.

"What an ugly man,"  Regina stated flatly.

"What?" Isabelle startled and turned toward her sister-in-law, relieved that she was staring at the captain's portrait rather than at the man himself. Glancing back, she saw that Daniel appeared amused, and explained, "That's Captain Gold, the former owner of the house."

"Why would you want such a hideous portrait hanging in your bedroom?"

_ "With that ugly scowl, you're not one to be talking,"  _ retorted the captain.

Mortified, Isabelle looked between Cora and  Regina , hoping they had not heard his comment. "I. . . I'm very fond of it."

_ "Liar!" _ he laughed.

Regina stared at her with a raised eyebrow, "Well, if you want a portrait of a strange man in your room, I suppose that's up to you."

_ Yes, it is _ , she thought, feeling quite indignant at  Regina 's estimation of Daniels features. _He's actually quite handsome_ , she thought to herself.

Taking a deep breath, she directed herself to Cora, knowing the decision to come here had been hers, and knowing that she had some kind of agenda to be here in any event. "I'm sure you didn't come all this way to criticize my décor."

The older woman graced her with a patronizing smile. "Of course not, dear. We've come to bring you some rather distressing news," she confirmed, patting the seat next to her as an invitation for her son's widow to join her. Isabelle was instantly wary, the invitation went unaccepted; she was familiar with Cora's routine of engulfing her maternal platitudes just before delivering a hurtful blow.

"It might be for the best, all things considered," murmured  Regina .

Planting her feet apart on the floor and folding her arms across her chest, she mirrored Daniel's stance across the room, receiving a raised eyebrow from the unseen apparition. "What news?" she asked warily.

Cora narrowed her eyes at her for a moment. The little chit had become a bit too independent for her own good. Slipping back into a caring façade she sighed and said, "It's Gerald's oil shares, darling. It seems there was some legal technicality regarding your inheritance." She smoothed her dress distractedly, letting the tension mount as her words sunk in to the little twit's mind. "We found out he sold those interests to an anonymous business partner shortly before his death. The poor dear didn't get around to making an amendment to his will before he died." Calculated tears threatened to spill over her lashes as she offered her daughter-in-law a sympathetic frown. "I'm so sorry, Isabelle, but you'll receive no more funds from the shares."

Isabelle paled and she held her breath. No income! She had spent all of the inheritance she had received from her parents in purchasing the house, but her living expenses were dependant on the dividends from the oil shares. Now they were gone! She looked at Cora's smug look of satisfaction and  Regina 's triumphant smirk and knew they had somehow engineered the loss. Proving it would cost money she didn't have and the outcome would be the same: she had nothing.

Daniel could feel the desperation growing in the young widow as she faced off with the two witches in her own bedroom. _"Avast, now! "Don't make a scene in front of these swabs."_

"I don't intend to make a scene!" Isabelle exclaimed.

"Of course you don't, dear," Cora condescended. "Now, be a good girl and sit down so we can discuss the future sensibly."

_ "Watch out, my dear! She's about to cast a net about ye!" _

"I. . . I don't want to sit down. I need to think." Isabelle began pacing.

Regina glided across the room to stand behind her mother in support. "There really isn't anything to think about, Isabelle. You and Lucy will move back home. We can live together and forget all this nonsense about living off on your own. "

"Living on my own is not nonsense!"

"Besides,"  Regina continued as if dangling a dainty morsel before her, "the social season is about to begin and there will be plenty to occupy your time; and you won't have to take sole responsibility for Lucy."

_ "Oh really, dearie!" _ Daniel tittered. " _Ye'd best make this harpy turn about or I_ will _take a hand!"_

"You keep out of this!" Isabelle hissed.

"Isabelle!"  Regina gasped.

Isabelle looked between Daniel and her two in-laws in complete frustration. "Oh, blast!"

Cora rose abruptly, her face red with anger. "If that's what you want, you ungrateful girl, then we will keep out of it."

Sighing, Isabelle placed her hand on her forehead and said sharply, "I didn't mean you!"

"Then just whom _did_ you mean?"  Regina bit out between clenched teeth.

"I meant. . . " Isabelle turned away from her and looked a the captain, who appeared to hover between amusement and anger. "I could explain, I suppose . . . but you wouldn't believe me."

Mother and daughter exchanged glances. Taking a deep breath and once again forcing a sickly, maternal smile, Cora slowly approached her daughter-in-law. She patted her shoulder and then slid her hand down Isabelle's arm, the sensation causing a repulsive chill to creep up the younger woman's flesh. "I understand, dear. First you loose poor Gerald, and then you spirit yourself away like a gypsy. I'm afraid all of this solitude has preyed on your mind."

_ She thinks ye've got bats in yer belfry. _

Jerking away from the older woman, Isabelle snapped at Daniel, "Oh, pipe down!" She was caught with Cora and  Regina hearing her conversation with her unseen companion, and seeing their confusion, she redirected. "I mean, I want to think!"

Regina had had enough with playing nice. Maybe intimidation would work where kindness had failed. Crossing her arms she glared hatefully at the obstinate younger woman. "Well, I won't 'pipe down,' as you put it. It should be perfectly obvious that with your income gone there is only one course for you to follow: come home with us now."

Gasping, Isabelle asked, "You mean, give up my house?"

_ Of course, you idiot, _ Cora thought. Assuming her motherly posturing, she said sternly, "Naturally. It was foolish and irresponsible for you to take it in the first place: and now that you're a pauper, how can you possibly stay?"

Daniel's voice fell softly on her ear. _"Don't do it, Isabelle."_

Turning her back on the two women, Isabelle faced him, finding his eyes were tender as he looked at back at her. "Do you want me to stay?" she asked softly.

He smiled. _"Aye, I do."_

"Do you really mean that?"

_ "You've made a commitment, and it's forever, dearie. Tell them to shove off."  _

Turning back to her in-laws, Isabelle smiled warmly and walked to the doorway. "I'm sorry. It's very kind of you to want me to come back, but I'm going to stay. I'll manage somehow, so," opening the door, she gestured them out. "please be kind enough to. . . shove off."

Both women gaped at her, their eyes wide. Cora snapped her mouth shut, at a total loss as to how to salvage a situation for the first time in her life. Shaking with undirected anger, she strode past Isabelle without stopping.  Regina followed suit, pausing in the doorway to speak to Isabelle through clenched teeth. "You're insane, Isabelle, and I want nothing more to do with you!" Lifting her skirts she followed her mother to the stairway.

Isabelle quickly shut the door and pressed her back against it, feeling flushed and giddy. "I _finally told that old battle-axe off_ ," she thought irreverently. Laughing nervously, she was about to address Daniel, but found herself in an empty room. "Captain Gold!" she called out, but he was nowhere to be seen. "Captain Gold, where are you?" Looking about, she realized where he might be and chided, "Don't forget your promise!"

** XXXXX **

Cora halted on the middle tier of the stairwell and waited for  Regina to join her. She had never been so furious in her life.

_ Wretched girl, so stubborn, so meddlesome! _

She was _not_ going to let the little chit ruin all of the plans she had lain down! Taking several calming breaths, she waited for  Regina to join her. No doubt,  Regina would have given the girl some snide parting remark designed to shatter her confidence. All she need do is calm down and go back to the bereft girl, pet her up a bit, talk her into returning with them tonight. She'd remind Isabelle that she could sell the house and retain some portion of the inheritance she had received from her parents. What would it matter a few months from now when she accepted a marriage proposal from the wealthy and well-placed owner of the _Coast to Coast Shipping Company_?

True, Leopold Blanchard was quite old and a bit doddering, but he wanted a "woman of quality" to help him raise his young daughter and he had jumped at the chance to meet her beautiful and troublesome daughter-in-law. This "merger" would advance the family business into an empire.

Reminding herself that Isabelle was the key to her future plans did much to calm her frayed nerves before Regina joined her on the stairs looking like she could shoot fireballs from her bare hands. Cora grabbed her upper arm and ordered her to wait for her on the stairwell. "I'm going to talk to her and work a little magic," she said with a confident smirk. Lifting her black, silk skirt, she placed her foot on the first step up and felt a firm tug backward at her elbow. "Stop pulling me,  Regina !" she snarled.

"I'm not pulling you,"  Regina replied firmly.

She attempted the step again with the same results. Incredulous, she whirled on her daughter and demanded, "Stop it!"

Defensive,  Regina snapped, "Mother, I'm not touching you."

A masculine laugh sounded from just behind them, startling both women. Unseen hands grabbed them each by an upper arm and forced them down the stairs at an alarming pace. "I've had enough of the both of ye!" said the voice, as they were summarily pushed out of the front door.

Terrified, Cora and  Regina ran to the waiting carriage, eager to get away. Behind them, the unearthly laugh taunted them, and Cora ordered the driver to leave at once. Near the end of the drive, their hearts still pounding in fright, the voice was heard inside the carriage: "And donna bother to come calling again!"

Peering from the front door and laughing conspiratorily, Lucy and Martha watched as the carriage bolted away from the pink manor on  Moncton Avenue .

** XXXXX **

Later that evening,  Regina sat beside the fireplace in the front parlor of the Lucas Boarding House. Her nerves still in a jumble, she sipped a cup of tea liberally laced with whiskey from the flask she secretly carried. She had slipped it in while her mother was preoccupied with several documents she had carried in earlier.

Although she considered herself to be rationale, she had been left feeling unbalanced by the experience at Isabelle's house that afternoon. It hadn't helped that Mrs. Lucas had surmised their otherworldly experience when she had seen their pale, agitated faces upon their return. Neither had she the opportunity to calm her nerves during dinner when the old woman had regaled them with stories of the ghost who haunted the pink Victorian house that her sister-in-law now occupied. Of course, the final straw had been when the good lady had informed her that the empty place beside her at the table was reserved for her _own_ dearly departed husband. If it were up to her,  Regina would throw the old lady and Isabelle into an asylum and throw away the key. She sighed. At least the whiskey dulled her senses.

She watched Cora by way of sidelong glances. The older woman tucked the documents she had been reading into her satchel and stared into the fire for several long minutes, drumming her fingers on the arm of the blue chair she'd pulled close to the hearth. She sat there – staring - the light of the fire flickering across her features, bathing her in a red aura made hazy by the amount of liquor now in  Regina 's system. Cora sat stock still, her angry eyes boring into the flame as if she could read the future in the runes of the flickering tongues. Her eyes never wavering and with no sign that she even knew her daughter was in the room, she spoke.

"She's ruined everything," she stated flatly, no hint of anger in her tone. "I could rip her heart out with my bare hands."

It scared  Regina when Mother got like this. Whatever Cora was working out in her mind was better left to her without  Regina 's input. Deciding it was wise not to draw attention to herself, she continued to sip her "tea" quietly. She couldn't allow whatever her ambitions matriarch's revenge for her brother's widow were to interfere with her own plans. Even if Cora decided to force  Regina to marry the disgusting shipping magnate in Isabelle's place, she could go along with it for a few weeks. After all, she planned to be leaving soon and would be far from the fall-out whenever it happened.

Smiling secretly behind the rim of her cup, she thought back on the afternoon at Mother's face when Isabelle had ordered her to "shove off." Although she had bullied and hedged Isabelle in at every turn throughout all of the years they had known each other, she admired her determination to live her own life. It was inspiring. After all, in a few months,  Regina would be secreted away by her unknown lover, Dan Olstler, to his ranch in  Oklahoma , leaving Cora's plots and intrigues behind her forever. Silently, she toasted Isabelle's bravery and drank deeply from her cup.

They continued to sit quietly for several more minutes as Cora thought and  Regina descended into a dreamy stupor. Suddenly, Cora softly chuckled, startling  Regina as she realized her mother had finally noticed she was sitting there with her. The older woman's eyes reflected the reddish light of the fire, giving her the appearance of a sorceress who'd finally unraveled the secrets of the spell that would defeat her enemy, and she sat back contentedly.  Regina knew that look from long experience: Cora had devised a plan to get back at Isabelle, to ruin her. She shuddered as her mother leaned back, her arms resting regally on the arms of the chair.

"You see, dear, Isabelle has a taste for independence, the idea that she can make her way in the world without my assistance. She doesn't know just how naïve she is, how vulnerable to – _unscrupulous_ \- men she can be. I have an old . . . acquaintance who I think could help with this situation. He owes me a favor or two, and I think he can manage to steer our wayward child in the right direction." Looking up and peering directly into her daughters dark eyes, she smiled knowingly. "After all, desperation is a great motivator for pushing one in the right direction."


	9. The Things You Love Most

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Inspiration: Fields of Gold by Celtic Woman

Isabelle awoke as the rising sun stretched its golden fingers through the curtains and spilled speckles of soft light across her face. She stretched and rolled toward the balcony, shivering in the cool air that had made its way into the room. Noting the slightly parted doors, she smiled, her heart warmed by the captains subtle and protective gesture. He had long since given up admonishing her to let the air flow through the rooms no matter the weather, fearing the gas may leak and she would inadvertently join him on the "aft side o' life and breath." Consequently, no matter if the morning greeted her small family with pouring rain or sunshine in abundance, every bedroom window was raised an inch or two above the sill, and her balcony doors were ajar. Isabelle found herself stifling giggles during breakfast on several mornings as Martha fumed about the "funny doings" of the house, as she was sure she had closed _and locked_ her own windows each night.

For the first time in her life, Isabelle truly felt safe. Childhood anxiety over her mother's condition, and then fear of failing her father when she took over as lady of the house were followed by her years with the Mills, whose family intrigues kept her on edge every minute. Since moving into the captain's house, she had felt nothing but contentment and peace. At times, the blustery apparition fussed about some infractions committed by one or the other of her small family, and he'd threaten to "keelhaul" the lot of them for their blunders, disappearing in a huff when she'd take too lightly his empty threats.

Just yesterday, the captain had materialized before her on the back porch in the midst of the weekly laundry, a black scowl on his face, his eyes narrowed over his brown eyes and his jaw grinding.

"Madam, what do ye think ye're about?"

"Oh!" she startled. Her sleeves were rolled up over her elbows, her work dress covered by a long, white apron. She used the back of her hand to brush away a stray tendril of hair before taking up a green cotton dress of Lucy's to scrub on the washboard. She could see his ire was up, but she was in such a playful, happy mood that she refused to let him spoil it by drawing her into an argument. "Good afternoon, Captain. What offense have I committed this time?"

"What offense, indeed? Ye know right well what I'm referrin' to!" he stormed, hands on hips and feet set apart. Oh, but he was splendid! She imagined him standing on board a great ship, his keen eyes on every man, every rope, every instrument on board, barking out orders, his compact body deftly dancing over the decks as he orchestrated the rhythm of the ship. He radiated power, and her heart fluttered in her chest as the image of him standing firmly on the deck of a ship flitted through her mind's eye.

"Stop yer, gaping at me, Madam, an' explain yerself!"

_ Had she been staring? _ Blushing, Isabelle dropped her gaze and resumed scrubbing the little dress across her washboard. "I'm sorry, Captain, but I really don't know what's upset you so."

Crossing his arms over his chest he pulled himself up to his fullest height. "I'm referrin' to the blasted ladder standin' 'gainst yon shelf in th' bloody library," he explained with calculated patience.

"Oh, that," Isabelle laughed. She pulled the dress out of the warm, sudsy water and began wringing it out, the water flowing down her forearms and dripping off of her elbows. "I pulled it upstairs this morning so I could dust the upper shelves."

"Aye, I could see that for meself!" he affirmed. "The question is why?"

Isabelle added the small, wrung-out twist of fabric to similar bundles in a wicker basket on her worktable and looked up into Daniel's eyes, her own wide with feigned innocent. "Because they needed it; I haven't dusted up there since we moved in."

He watched her remove one of Martha's blouses from another basket and continued. "An' it could not wait 'til I was here to give ye a hand with it?"

"Why, Captain? Do you like dusting?"

"No, I donna like dustin'!" he groused, "but ye could have waited for me ta bring it in an' see it were placed for ye! Ye've no business carryin' the thing up the stairs like that!"

Stifling a grin, Isabell began wringing the blouse and countered, "Come now, sir, it wouldn't have been very convenient to have Lucy see the ladder floating up the stairs on its own, now would it?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "The lass goes out ta play, doesn't she?"

"Well yes, that's true," she conceded. Grabbing a small metal pail, she dipped it into the soapy water and began emptying the washtub, spilling the used water onto the ground off of the porch. "But Captain, I can't wait on your schedule to get things done; and besides, I'm not helpless."

"Ah, I know that, dearie! I've seen ye totin' an' fechin' buckets of water, hauling boxes full of books an' such all over the house an' shovin' furniture from starboard ta port an' port ta starboard e'er sin' ye moved in here!"

_ He's worked himself up into a regular monsoon, Isabelle mused _ . "Of course I have! Things need to be done!"

Having emptied the majority of the water from the tub, she grabbed it by the handles and began lifting it. Daniel wrenched it out of her hands, carried it to the edge of the porch and poured out the remainder of the sudsy water. Setting it back on the stand with a weighty thud, he stepped back and resumed his rigid posture.

"That blasted ladder is older than dirt an' has two loose rungs. Ye could ha' fallen an' broken yer pretty little neck," he said accusingly.

"Oh, not so, Captain," she smiled brightly. "I noticed the rungs yesterday when I climbed up to wash the windows on the second floor. I fixed them." Isabelle hid a smirk as she saw his eyes widen in shock over her pure audacity. Lifting her skirt so as not to trip on them, she walked around him, passing through the back door and into the kitchen. He followed on her heels and ran past her to the stove where she was heating a great pot of water.

"NO!" he admonished her, pointing his finger in her wide-eyed face. He turned and lifted the heavy pot of very hot water, carrying it to the back porch. Trailing him back outside, she watched him empty it into the washtub.

Curtsying playfully, she said, "thank you, kind sir." As the tub was under the water pump, she began working the handle up and down, adding cold well water into the steaming tub until it reached a comfortable temperature. Meanwhile, Daniel continued to admonish her to stop taking unnecessary risks, finally appealing to her maternal sense, because "ye wouldn't want to leave the wee lassie an orphan child."

"You're right, of course, Captain. I promise I'll consult you on my next dangerous chore, or hire a man to come in and take care of it." She smiled up at him mischievously, her hands automatically reaching for the sudsy, wrung-out bundles in the laundry basket and plunking them into the warm rinse water. Sighing with feigned longsuffering, she continued, "I suppose I'll have to disappoint Lucy and tell her she can't climb on the roof and sweep the chimney after all."

Daniel's jaw dropped, completely taken aback. "Confound it, woman! I should keelhaul the lot of you!"

Isabelle giggled at him then, and he threw up his hands and vanished from her sight.

She smiled to herself as she recalled the incident. He had visited her in the evening, as had become their custom, still put out with her, but was soon cajoled into a better mood by her lightheartedness. Roar and bluster he might, but she knew he really cared for them; cared for them in a way Gerald never had. Perhaps it was because he wasn't so lonely now that they had come; or, perhaps it was just his nature to look out for others. Whatever his reasons, the grateful widow more than appreciated his kindness and the quiet vigils he kept over them.

Rising, Isabelle slipped on her dressing gown and pushed her feet into her still cold slippers. Padding softly across the floor she passed through the French doors and onto the balcony, a cool breeze teasing her hair as it hung in long, loose tendrils down her back. Gazing out at the sun newly risen over the restless tide, Isabelle thought about her captain. _My captain_. What was he? A ghost? A wish? Had she conjured him from her imagination as a companion, a protector? She had never believed in ghosts before. Had he not told her on the night they met that he was but an illusion? But, he seemed so real, so very . . . alive. Was she capable of dreaming a man, a personality, a voice into the image of the portrait in her bedroom and then breathe life into him to make her own life less lonely, her way more sure?

She had been here for nearly five months now, and had come to treasure her friendship with him. His craggy face had become as dear to her as Lucy's, his voice as welcome as her own breath. She had never met anyone like him, never been so free to share her thoughts and aspirations. Morning tea time was the most cherished hour of her day, and she had taken to going down to the kitchen for tea each night after the house had settled, knowing he would join her for another hour of conversation before wishing her a fond goodnight. He shared with her his vast knowledge of the world, its ports and nations and peoples: the customs of exotic natives on every shore; of politics both here and abroad; of the raw energy it took to survive the elements, of being a man pitted against nature itself. He had done more than feed her hunger for adventure, though: he had gleaned of her the insights she had gained from her beloved literature and had listened, actually _listened_ to her as she discussed her dream: to transform her love of the written word into a means of making her way in the world, of letting others see through her eyes, entertain her thoughts and notions. She wanted to see the world and describe it to others in such a way that they would see it, too.

They shared many like sentiments, it was true, but their discussions were also stimulating for the differences between them: she was young and sheltered, he well traveled and seasoned; she was refined and he was earthy; he was cynical, whereas she was an idealist; she viewed the world through the aspect of Spring and the promise of renewal, and he through the coldness of Winter and the sureness of all things coming to an end.

She was Beauty and he was her Beast.

If they had met in life, she would have lost her heart to him, felt she already had lost her heart to him. But, how was this possible? She felt sure she could love him, truly love him, but what could they be to one another? What if he was an illusion: would he simply cease to exist one day? And then what?

Her heart clenched at the thought of loosing him, and that thought reminded her of her current plight. The ghost seemed tied to this house, and she needed to come up with a plan or she would lose the house, and by concession, her captain as well. Neither did she relish the idea of returning to the Mills and loosing all she had built for herself and for Lucy. She had spoken with Mrs. Lucas a few days ago when she was in town, the good lady answering her questions about her house and her boarders. As much as Isabelle disliked the idea of changing the life she was had grown so fond of, she was growing desperate to come up with a plan to save her home and preserve her little family. She had birthed an idea and needed only to iron out a few details to see it through.

Retreating back into her room, she quickly threw open her wardrobe and selected a dress for the day. She had a few errands to run after walking Lucy to school and she wanted to look her best. After all, to save what she loved most in the world, she may have to put herself on the line.

** XXXXX **

Daniel paced the balcony impatiently as he waited for Isabelle to return from town. She had risen and dressed before daybreak, and had accompanied Lucy on her walk to school. This much he had surmised for himself, as the blasted wench hadn't thought of leaving him a note to tell him where she had gone.

He had occupied himself after discovering her departure by venturing out along the beach. It amused him to see his feet sink into the sand without leaving footprints, as well as to stroll along the ebbing serf and have the water penetrate his "body" without scurrying around his limbs as it had when he was flesh and bone. It was a bit of a comfort to know he could make this venture of some distance from the house without fear of vanishing. It was also good to discover that he could walk the sandy shoreline and come home, dragging no wet sand to muddy Martha's shining floors. His Aunt Agatha would have appreciated that very much.

Morning teatime had come and gone, and still Isabelle had not returned. It wasn't like she didn't make trip or two into Storybrooke each week, but he had seized upon a plan for her provision and was anxious to share it with her. He also hoped that his pique at her yesterday would be forgotten in the wake of his new idea. He smiled at the memory. As a commander of men and master of a ship, he was used to his word being law, his scowls enough to make men twice his size tremble with fear. Crossing him was like reaping a whirlwind and disobeying his commands was never, ever an option. And yet, this fragile _belle_ met his scowls with a level gaze, his grimace with an amused smile his barking commands with mirth and quips. He had been a friendless _beast_ for many a year, and now, beyond the capability of interactions with his fellow men, she had come to coax humanity from him. Bluster and bellow as he might at this slender reed, this _beauty_ , merely opened her arms and danced in the winds he blew.

His thoughts were interrupted by the chugging sounds of a motorcar ambling up the cobblestone street in front of the manor. Looking up, he glimpsed the atrocity steadily approach, all fumes and smoke and bone-jarring noise. Pulling up in front of the house, it sputtered for a few moments and then stopped with a loud bang. The rotund driver stepped out, his features hidden beneath a cap and goggles, a long scarf fairly fluttering behind him in his haste to round the front of the contraption to the passenger side. Opening the door, the captain caught a glimpse of a dainty boot settling onto the ground. The passenger, a lady, accepted the driver's proffered hand and descended from the car. The driver seemed reluctant to release the lady's hand, but she pulled it from him and smoothed her skirts and the hair peeking from under a crisp bonnet. That hair . . . it was his Isabelle!

Daniel felt his hackles rise as jealousy seized him. Wishing himself away from the beach, he materialized on the front porch of the house, arms crossed and feet planted firmly at the top of the stairs. The driver took a moment to divest himself of hat, goggles and scarf, throwing them haphazardly through the window on the drivers' side of his shiny, black motorcar. Daniel's eyes widened as he recognized the banker, Horace Cogsworth, who had now offered Isabelle his arm to escort her into the manor, his face ridiculously besotted in the presence of the pretty widow.

He was speaking as he walked beside her, "I'm so glad you found the house suitable after all! And to think, some superstitious people believed a ghost was haunting it!" Cogsworth opened the gate and allowed Isabelle to pass through before him. "How could such things exist in the twentieth century?"

"Indeed. How could they?"

Isabelle, her left arm upon the bankers and her right hand raising her skirt above her ankle looked up at the captain as he stood on the porch, her eyes growing wide and soft as a blush spread across her features. Daniel held his breath a moment as he returned her gaze, felt the connection between them as she approached. The idiot escorting her was babbling on about something, but she heard not one word, her smile widening as she drew closer to the one who awaited her on the porch.

Lifting his hands, Daniel flicked them in an inward gesture. At that moment, the motorcar parked out on the street roared to life and began backing down the hill back toward town. Cogsworth let out an undignified yelp and, abandoning Isabelle's arm, bolted after the vehicle as it fled him. From his perch above the steps, the captain threw his head back and laughed!

Isabelle shook her head as she watched the banker race after the wayward vehicle. She turned back toward the captain, and offered him a frown for his efforts. "Really, Captain!" she scolded. "Did you have to do that after all the trouble it took for me to get him here?"

Looking down from his perch, he said accusingly, "Ye should pick a less skittish man fer yer future husband!"

Her shocked expression gave him some comfort. "Husband: that _walrus_?" _How ludicrous! Really, where does he come up with such ideas?_ Raising her hands above her head, she unpinned her hat and shook off the dust. "Your silly pranks are bound to keep him away now, and just when I needed him to put in a good word for us."

His face still smug with mirth, he offered her a hand up the steps, smiling broadly when she placed her delicate hand in his. "We have no need of his opinion, me dear, good or otherwise." At the top of the steps, he moved her hand to the bend of his elbow and escorted her to the white, wooden rocker on the front porch. Seating her, he crossed his arms and stood with his feet apart, planting himself firmly before her.

"But we do need his opinion," Isabelle countered determinately. "However are we going to take in boarders with all of the rumors circulating about the house?"

"Boarders?" Daniel looked down at the small woman as if she had struck him. "What need we wi' boarders?"

Isabelle sighed patiently. "We need boarders to make a living so we can stay here." Looking at him with his jaw hanging open and his eyes wide in astonishment, she plunged ahead before he could work himself into a fit and keep her from explaining. "I've worked it all out. We'll need four boarders to cover the expenses of food, utilities and supplies, and have enough left over to pay for our own expenses. Of course, I'll have to pay Martha a bit more to cook for so many, but I'll help with the extra chores. Lucy will share a room with me, and I'll have to pack up the library to make room for the . . . "

"Are ye out of yer mind?" Daniel bellowed. "What do ye mean Lucy will share our room?"

" _My_ room!"

"And what's this about takin' all the books out, and havin' yer woman to cook for mor'en you an' her an' the lass?" Daniel was now pacing, rubbing his forehead with his right hand as if her proposal had given him a headache. "I won't permit a bunch of landlubbers gaddin' about me house . . . '

" _My_ house!"

". . . with their demands an' noise!"

"Captain Gold, be reasonable!" Isabelle demanded, pounding her small fist against the arm of the rocker. Daniel grinned wolfishly, appreciating the way her agitation flushed her lovely face and caused her to breaths to deepen. "This is the best plan I could come up with on short notice and I need your cooperation!"

Smiling slyly, he locked his brown eyes on her own stormy irises and closed the distance between them; then slowly, slowly knelt before her until his face was mere inches from hers. His voice low and deliberate, he threatened, "Bring yer landlubbers on board, dearie, an' see what happens!"

Narrowing her eyes in an attempt to match his demeanor, she said tightly, "What will happen?"

"I will shake the thunder from the skies an' rattle them from the cellar to the rafters!"

Isabelle maintained her scowl for a few more moments and then let out a very undignified snort and giggled. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"Aye, an' more, besides!"

"Of course, you would!" she conceded. Looking into his smug face, she snorted. "Very well, Captain, no boarders. What do _you_ suppose we do for money?"

"Yer goin' to write a book."

Isabelle was stunned. "A book? But, I . . . about what?"

"Me." Daniel stood and, turning away, swaggered toward the front doors.

Isabelle held her seat until she saw him disappear through the front door. Jumping up, she ran to catch up. He paused halfway up the stairs and grinned back at her. "Tea time, my dear," he said, motioning upstairs with his head before he continued upwards.

"Martha, tea upstairs, please!" she called out before running up behind him. Breathless by the time she reached the open bedroom door, she found the captain seated on the settee, his arms outstretched across the back of the seat and his feet crossed and propped up on the tea table. Crossing the threshold, she addressed the amused spirit, "Write about you, Captain? What do you mean?"

"I mean, me dear, that I will tell ye me story an' ye will write it up."

Taking a seat in the chair across from him, Isabelle tried to make sense of his proposal. "Captain, Gold, I've never written anything more ambitious than a few children's stories! What makes you think I could possibly do something like this? Who would read it?"

Daniel put his legs down and pulled forward, closer to the young woman. "Who would read it? Why, everyone." He smiled roguishly and continued. "I've lived a man's life, a good life: full of adventure, overcoming adversity, . . . "

"Captain Gold!"

". . . an' we'll call it . . . _The Dark One's Dagger_!"

"That is not a very nice title!"

"It's not meant to be. It's meant to be sensational, like the subject!"

Isabelle stilled for a moment, reflecting on the captain's proposal. "It takes months to write a book. What are we to live on in the meantime?"

Daniel stood and walked toward the balcony. Yes, how to make it until he and Isabelle could complete their work. Turning back toward her he asked, "you have jewelry?"

"A little," she conceded.

"Pawn it."

"What?" Isabelle exclaimed. "I couldn't"

"Blast it, madam," Daniel countered. "Ye must understand what's at stake here. This is no time for ye to be crawling off a lee shore. We can't afford for ye to be squeamish!"

"I _do_ understand, and don't swear at me."

"Well, then, ye can start with that ugly broach."

Isabelle traced the lines of the gold and pearl bird pinned on her blouse. "But, Gerald's mother gave it to me."

Daniel shrugged. "All the more reason to pawn it. Ye don't like Gerald's mother and you hate her broach."

"Really, Captain Gold," Isabelle said reproachfully. "I'll have you know I'm very fond of my mother-in-law," she lied.

Snickering, Daniel said, "Very well. If yer so fond of her, you can go back an' live with her."

Unpinning the broach, Isabelle set it on the table before her. "I'm sure I can get something for it; and I have my wedding ring and some other pieces as well." She looked up at Daniel, her growing excitement reflected in her eyes. "I'll go to the bank and speak with Mr. Cogsworth tomorrow."

Cogsworth, again. "Ye think ye can convince the banker to lend ye top dollar?"

"Of course," she said snidely, "I'll tell him Captain Gold sent me to him personally. I'm sure your former interactions will put him in a generous spirit."

"Daniel."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Me name is Daniel," he offered. "Since we're going to be collaborators, ye may call me Daniel." He offered his hand, which she took. "An' I shall call you Belle."

"My name is Isabelle."

"Isabelle?" he asked as if scrutinizing its suitability. "No, that's the name of a sheltered flower. Isabelle's are always being imposed upon, but Belle, now there's a name for a modern woman: an adventurer, an _author_."

She smiled at him, her heart fluttering a bit. He had given her a new name to go along with a new view of herself. "Belle: Belle French, author."

"What's that miss?" Martha interrupted from the doorway, her hands laden with a full tea tray.

Isabelle pulled her hand from Daniel's and addressed the maid. "My pen name, Martha: Belle French. I'm going to write a book."

"A book about what, miss?" She pushed into the room and then stooping over the tea table, arranged the tray with it's two cups.

"About our friend, the captain. I'll write a book about him, and his adventures at sea."

Martha stood up and took Isabelle's hand, patting it. "That's a fine idea. When are you going to do this."

Isabelle looked over Martha's shoulder at the captain, who shook his head indicating his desire they start immediately. "Right now, Martha."

"That's good, miss," she said, dropping Isabelle's hand and heading back toward the door. "I always figured you had the makings of a fine writer with the way you love books and all. I have to go to town this afternoon, so I'll fetch Lucy from school for you." She paused at the doorway and looked back at her. "Now mind you don't get caught up too much with the captain. You know how sailors can be." That being her final word, she closed the door behind her and was gone.


	10. Selfless, Brave and True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For inspiration, listen to "Falling Slowly" by Jonathan and Charlotte.

The beach was gray and brittle as the serf pounded the shoreline, and black clouds roiled overhead blotting out the sun and casting a gray pallor over the beach. A cold breeze was blowing in from the North and across the face of the ocean, bringing with it the bitterness of winter. Isabelle was bundled in a wool coat, her hands still cold in blue mittens and tucked inside her coat pockets. The wind whipped at the hair that had escaped her knitted cap and scarf, causing the strands to flutter about her face unheeded. Daniel walked beside her, completely unaffected by the wind and weather, allowing her to set the pace. After all, it had been her idea to break from their work and hazard a walk along the beach. Her face was flushed from the exertion, but her smile revealed her delight for the sheer, untamed dance of the weather swirling about them. The winds gusting around her made for slow progress, and the cold, wet air tinged her lips a bluish shade. He watched her lively eyes drink in the scene before them: gulls hovering nervously over the angry waves, a buoy clanging frantically off shore and one lone boat fighting the churlish serf for the harbor before the arrival of another impending storm.

They walked in companionable silence for the length of the beach, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Work on the book had entered its fifth week and Isabelle had shown herself to be a very conscientious and encouraging collaborator. From the beginning, they had agreed that Daniel would provide raw information, would simply tell her the stories associated with his life whether good or bad, and she would take notes, ask questions, dig for details. They began work each morning as soon as Lucy left for school, often reviewing over tea at midmorning, and continued until lunch time. In the afternoons, Isabelle transcribed her notes, fleshing them out into small catches of stories to be pieced together once she decided how she wanted to frame the entire work. Their collaboration ended as soon as Lucy returned from school, and Isabelle's evenings were devoted to her daughter and housework with Martha. By unspoken agreement, their late night tea they reserved for small talk.

As she began to write his story, Isabelle was sensitive to the less favorable or painful portions of his life, her notes reflecting an ability to present the facts honestly and objectively, but without making him seem pitiable or foolish. He was thankful for that. She interjected humor or urgency appropriately, enhancing the anecdotal pieces of his life with candor and color. He had been quite open in every aspect, often causing a pretty blush to claim her face, but she never balked at his admissions. She wasn't writing for polite society; she was telling the story of a seaman, a business man, a father and a world traveler, and she intended to tell it in his voice. Daniel had been right to trust his tale to her, as she was proving to be gifted beyond his expectations. In her very capable hands, even _he_ might sound interesting! There had been few things outside of his own work and schemes that he had ever believed in, but he had come to believe in her, and this gift of hers played wonderfully into his plans.

Isabelle shrieked as a sudden gust played up her skirts, sending an unwelcome breath of ice along her already numb legs. The shriek ended in a laugh, the woman's effervescent humor undaunted even by an ill wind. He couldn't help but smile at her when she was like this. Her natural vivacity was infectious and he began laughing with her. Isabelle opened her arms and twirled about as the gusts whipped at her hair, her coat, her skirt, reveling with abandon in the wild wind.

_ My God, but she is beautiful!  _ Had Daniel breath in his lungs, it would have been taken from him at the sight of _his Belle_ spinning in the coming gale.

It was times like this that he sorely missed being mortal, missed the physical responses his body would have had to her. It was true that he could affect the world he was no longer part of in some very physical, almost magical, ways. He could touch, but not feel; appear solid though he was unsubstantial. He didn't know how this worked or why, but he suspected he could never, would never, assert his attentions toward this woman in a physical way. The fact that he was on borrowed time in this dimension was never far from his thoughts, and though he hadn't experienced the beckoning _netherlight_ of the next world since Isabelle's arrival, he had sensed its faint echo from time to time. He could not evade the next world forever, and anchoring himself to Belle's heart might well mean tearing a hole in it later when he could no longer resist the gentle but insistent existence coming for him. He was resolved to make the best of the time he had left to securing his present goals.

The frigid wind began to blow in earnest, and with it came the first few sleety drops of rain. "Inside!" he shouted to her, grabbing her hand and leading her toward the safety of the house. Bounding up the porch, he opened and held the door for her and she passed inside to the warmth of the cozy foyer. Discarding her outer wrappings and draping them over pegs on the coat rack beside the door, she scurried over to the fireplace and the inviting heat it offered. Shivering, she rubbed her arms and appealed to Daniel as he entered the parlor, "just let me warm up a bit, Captain, and I'll be ready to get started again."

Daniel watched her as she turned first one side and then the other toward the fire, amused by her attempt to warm all sides evenly. Her face was rosy from the chill wind, the ends of her damp hair curling from the frigid drizzle. Her skirts were equally damp, with the hem completely wet from their excursion on the beach. Watching her shiver, he took pity on her and was determined to extend their break for her sake.

"No need to hurry, me dear," he responded. "Stay by the fire and warm yerself. I'll fetch tea." Without waiting for a reply, he vanished to the kitchen.

Isabelle grabbed an iron poker and struck the waning log, stoking the red coals on the floor of the hearth. She drew another trimmed log from the kindling box and fed it to the fire, the new addition deterring the heat for a few minutes as the flames smoldered and then greedily caught at its underbelly. It would do nicely to have the room warmed up when Martha returned from town with Lucy in a bit. Teeth chattering, Isabelle grabbed a quilt off of a chair nearby and wrapped it around herself before taking a seat on the hearth near the fire, and waited for the flame to catch in earnest. As if worked by the magic of her will, the red embers hidden beneath the banked log crackled and hissed as they fought to gain a hold beneath the cold wood and come to life.

She thought of Daniel as she shivered and waited. She had spent many hours listening as he had told her of his travels to distant lands, of his various relationships, entanglements and ventures and was impressed with how astute an observer he was of human nature, and that he almost instinctively understood the underlying motivations of the many people he had dealt with. He was also a ruthless businessman who offered hard, although fair, terms in business and trade. She learned that he had a soft spot for children and that he was always a gentleman, at least to her. He had an appreciation for the raw beauty of nature, and, a keen eye for art and antiquities. He appreciated industry and invention and innovation. He had a quick temper and a quicker wit, but for all of his salty talk and village education, he had a logical mind and was well acquainted with any topic in which she engaged him. He loved poetry, especially Keats. He hadn't withheld any interaction from her, sometimes causing her to blush or question whether some things were best left unsaid. Talking with him as she had in these past weeks had peeled back the layers of his character, revealing him to be the most profound man she had ever encountered.

The captain returned from the kitchen with a large mug and handed it to her. Humming appreciatively, she drew it to her and inhaled the fragrant steam. She took a sip and let the steamy heat of the tea spread from her belly to her limbs, and then nestled the almost too hot cup in her small hands. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the drink, letting the warm mist curl about her cheeks and looked up at him through her dark lashes. "Thank you, Daniel. That was very thoughtful of you. Just give me a moment and I'll be ready to get back to work."

Daniel lowered himself into an armchair close by. "We can do a little work right here, me dear." He liked watching the warm, amber light of the fire dance across her features. "Where did we leave off?"

"You were going to tell me about your son."

"Baelfire," he said the name almost reverently. He drew his thoughts inward, the old pain of loss and regret ever present when he thought of the boy he left behind so long ago. "He was but a lad of three when last I saw him." Strange, he knew his son was a grown man but always envisioned him as three.

The sadness of his voice drew Isabelle's sympathy. "I'm so sorry," she said gently. "What happened?"

Daniel stared into the growing flames, his eyes gloomy. "I lost him." Looking into her soft and sympathetic eyes, he told her how the birth of his son had changed his life. He'd lost his passion for the sea to the unexpected joy that fatherhood had granted him. His Bae had been a hearty child, physically and mentally quick, and he had lavished on the boy all of the energy and attention he had previously granted his career. For the first time in many long years, he allowed himself to draw back the curtain he had so carefully dropped over the past, revisited memories of holding a blanketed infant in his arms; of chasing an energetic toddler; of walking the piers with a sprouting lad and taking him fishing. He told her of Milah's increasing rejection of him, and how her family's position and wealth had effectively stripped him of a place in his son's life. He ended with his elaborate plans to build a business here in Storybrooke to entice Bae to leave his mother's family and begin a new life at his father's side.

"So," Isabelle interjected, "your son is the reason you've done all you've done here: the cannery, the shipping business, this house?"

"Aye, he is."

Isabelle reflected on his words. "And this book, Daniel: it's for him too, isn't it?"

Daniel closed his eyes, unshed tears burning the lids, and sighed. Her intuition amazed him. "Aye." He sought her eyes then, revealing his plan for the first time. "I would ha' wanted ye to write it whether it benefited ye or no. I want ye to tell me story so that me son will know me. I want him to know how vera much his father loves him."

Isabelle nodded with understanding. It was touching that he loved his son so dearly and utterly wrong that their connection had been broken. His life had been spent in trying to reconnect with the boy, so much so that the drive for it had followed him even in death. "Is that why you haunt this house, because it was your last tie to him?"

"I think so," he answered. "I kept drivin' people away, hopin' he'd come here himself, hopin'…I'd see him…get one last chance to tell him how I feel."

Isabelle turned her gaze to the now ample fire, reflecting on all he had told her. Daniel had devoted his life to a son who didn't remember him, who, in all likelihood, had been raised to believe his father had abandoned him. The boys' mother – Milah, was it? – had undoubtedly been cut from the same cloth as her mother-in-law: a cold and selfish woman who would have raised the boy to further her own interests. The woman had no idea how fortunate she had been to have been married to Daniel, to have a husband who wanted and loved his child. Gerald never had any real interest in Lucy, had gotten Isabelle pregnant to solidify his ties to her and to her father's wealth. Isabelle had seen more than a few examples of this kind of father among her wealthy acquaintances. Maurice had been a wonderful exception to their ranks, and Daniel was like him in many ways: a self-made man of humble beginnings with a kind heart and a keen eye for business. He was earthy and worldly and driven. More than that, though: he was a man who loved deeply and truly.

Over the past few weeks, she had talked to the dock workers and local business owners about Daniel, gathering information for the biography they were working on. Although he had garnered no friendships in the town he had lived in, he had gained respect among his peers. The consensus was that he had been a loner, but also a shrewd businessman with an understanding of the value of quality, honesty and cooperation. The cannery had employed scores of men during a time of economic slump, and the export company he had built brought a measure of security to the small town. He had lived alone here, without love and without companionship. Even though his industry had brought hope to Storybrooke, it had gained him no human connections. He had been a good man, _was still_ a good man, but had been single-mindedly focused on regaining his son. Others thought him cold and solitary, but Isabelle knew differently. Regaining his relationship with his lost son had became the driving force in his life, had defined him and his successes. Everything Daniel had done, he had done for love, yet no one knew or cared.

A familiar ache gripped her heart as it always did when she thought of Daniel in this way. The man had shut everyone out, had safeguarded his privacy his entire life, even in the first few months of their lives together. The realization that he was sacrificing his privacy now to provide for her and Lucy tugged at her heart; knowing that he had entrusted her to complete his quest and bring his words to his lost boy nearly broke it.

He had grown quiet, pensive, his thoughts lingering in the gloomy past. Feeling the need to comfort him, Isabelle rose from her place by the hearth and quietly approached the captain as he stared into the fire, lost in his thoughts. She placed her small hand on his larger one as he gripped the arm of his chair and knelt down beside him. He started at her touch and turned his haunted gaze to her sympathetic one. Without thinking, she reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes, the gesture catching both of them off guard, their eyes widening at the intimacy of so small a touch.

Daniel raised his hand to her cheek, grazed his knuckles along its soft contours, a tickling sensation at the contact barely registering as unexpected in his brain. Her breath hitched at the contact, and their eyes met with longing. Slowly, Daniel leaned down toward her as Isabelle raised her face to receive him. Shyly, their lips met in a tentative kiss, the touch light and petal soft. Daniel pulled away to look into her eyes, darkened now with hope and desire, reflecting the amber flickers of the fire. "Belle," he whispered, and then leaned down again to reclaim her sweet lips. He slid his hands into her windblown hair, drawing her closer to him while he kissed her as if she could return his life and breath to him. Isabelle brought one hand up to cover his as he cupped her face, laying the other against his chest, gathering his lapel in her small fist and using it as leverage to pull herself in closer. Love bloomed with desire and she wished with all of her heart that he was real, that this moment would be a new beginning for the two of them. Daniel pulled away and began planting tiny kisses on her cheeks and eyes before gently laying his forehead on hers and lingering for a moment, swearing for a moment that he could almost _feel_ her. Sighing, he grazed a final kiss on her lips.

Isabelle dropped her gaze as Daniel stood and placed a few feet of space between them. After a few moments she broke the silence with a soft declaration: "I love you, Daniel."

He stood still, allowing the healing touch of her confession to wash over him and he turned to look at her. He loved her fiercely, more than he had ever loved anyone, as much as he did his boy. He had never dared to expect that she would love him in return. She knelt still upon the hard floor, her dress still a wee bit damp from their walk on the beach and her hair wildly cascading about her face and shoulders. She was flushed and breathless with love and hope, her eyes tearing and her lips trembling, and she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He came to her then and knelt down next to her, and drawing her into his arms, he pressed his forehead to hers.

Daniel was torn. Any physical attraction he had toward her had to be a mere phantom, as those who had missing limbs had told of feeling arms or legs they no longer had. His feelings for her, though, were a different matter altogether. He desired her spirit, that inward soul she possessed that ever enticed, ever drew him to her. He could not help but love her, want to be near her, but he could never be so cruel as to draw her near to himself. "That canna be. I am neither flesh nor bone, me darlin' Belle."

Isabelle whimpered, his words striking her at her core, and slow tears spilled unheeded from her darkened eyes. "Do you really think that matters to me?"

"It should," he said gently. "I canna be what ye need me to be, Belle; me life is over, and yers is just beginnin'. Ye have a whole lifetime before ye, an' me - I'm on borrowed time."

Isabelle knew what he was referring to. He had explained the strange light that visited him from time to time, beckoning him to loose himself in its insistent tide to wash away to a distant and unknown shore. "I know that, Daniel, and I don't care. I just want to love you for as long as I can."

She sounded so young saying that. He should have known she'd express herself that way. She was a woman who lived in the present, never letting her past deter her and always assuming the future would take care of itself. How opposite from himself, who had let the sting of the past force him to live only for the future. He had missed much by doing this, but now used it as an argument to set things in perspective for her. "Belle, ye must listen to me." He gently pulled away from her, distancing himself a space, but staying close enough to cup her face in his hand. "I canna share yer life, as I ha' no life. I am dead, Belle."

"No," she moaned, shaking her head in denial.

"Aye, me darlin," he responded sternly. "I can be no husband to ye, no mate at all." He placed his hand under her chin and forced her to look at him, idly wiping away her bright tears as he continued. "I canna be a father to yer lass, nor master in this house. All I can give ye in support are the words yer pennin' to paper an' no more. Me businesses are gone; me accounts, gone! I canna even give to ye me name!"

Belle felt as though her heart would burst as he denied her, for she longed for him as she longed for her own soul. The truth of his words stung and her own heart demanded they become more than they were. "I can't help but love you, Daniel. What am I to do?"

His hands still cupping her face, he gently forced her to look up at him, his thumbs wiping at the tears coursing down her cheeks. Smiling, he said gently, "ye'll live, me darlin'. It's right that ye should do so. And when the time comes, ye'll let me go."

Isabelle clasped his hand, brought it to her lips and kissed his palm. "I don't want to let you go, Daniel." Looking up, she offered him a watery smile. The hope and determination etched on her beautiful features struck him with pain. So hopeful, his Belle was sure to be disappointed.

At that moment, the front door opened and Lucy and Martha rushed in with a cold wind and a noisy entrance. Rising reluctantly, Daniel stood and helped Isabelle to her feet. Giving him a parting smile and wiping the remaining tears from her eyes, Isabelle hurried to the foyer to assist with coats and shopping bags before ushering her two frozen charges over to the fireplace. Daniel stood in the shadows, unseen, while Isabelle cared for her little family, his heart fearing what should happen to his darling Belle when she no longer had cause for hope.

** XXXXX **

Business at The Rabbit Hole was slow due to the winter storm blowing outside, but that mattered little to those few patrons who now occupied the dank tavern near the harbor. The scattered lanterns barely illuminated the dark interior, shedding just enough light among the empty tables for the barmaid to distinguish the seamen there to weather the storm from the newcomer seated near the iron stove to the left of the bar. He was a handsome rake with thick black hair, a seductive smile and dark lashes framing icy blue eyes. He was dressed in expensive dark slacks and a black leather jacket. A strapped travel trunk topped with several books and a leather camera case were on the floor next to him. He looked worldly and well traveled. He looked like he was used to getting his way, and she certainly hoped he'd be getting his way with her before the night was over. He'd downed two tankards of beer since entering the bar and he still looked thirsty.

Tossing a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from behind the bar and then made her way to his table. Leaning over him, she put one glass in front of the handsome traveler and poured him a liberal amount of the dark liquid while offering him a view of her generous cleavage. Grinning roguishly at the blonde, he sat back in his chair and gestured in invitation to the chair opposite of him. "Pull up a chair, love."

She took the seat across from him and poured herself a drink in the other glass. Tossing back her own drink, she slowly licked the dusky flavor from her lips, her expression filled with unspoken promises. "Susie," she offered as she leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table before her, resting her ample bosom upon them.

She was rewarded with a raised brow and an appreciative grin. "Well, pleased to make your acquaintance. . . Susie," he answered, settling back against the hard back of his chair.

The plump blond was pleased with her prospects for the evening. "You're new in town. Are you here on business or pleasure?"

The man laughed and then downed his whiskey in one gulp. "Well, love, why not both, huh?"

Susie laughed and poured more liquor for each of them. Eyeing his belongings, she looked over the camera equipment and log books. "Are you some sort of writer?"

"Photographer," he answered, "among other things."

Susie smiled coyly and arched her back in her chair, raising her arms behind her head as she had seen models do in the magazines. "Well, you can photograph me."

The rake laughed, warming to the suggestion. "That is a very good idea, love." He poured another round for the both of them, each swallow of the fiery liquid increasing the barmaid's charms considerably. He'd accept her. . . hospitality. . . for the night and then get to work on his objective in the morning. "Yes, let's go somewhere private and discuss how best to . . . display . . . your lovely features."

Pleased, Susie rose from her chair and offered him her hand. She tugged him up from his seat, standing by as he gathered his belongings. Smiling, she asked for his name.

"Killian Jones, at your service, madam."


	11. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration: You'll Be In My Heart by Phil Collins

The winter front had passed several days ago, leaving behind a bitter, wet cold. A pristine blanket of snow had settled over the landscape and the villagers who had sequestered themselves inside to ride out the worst of the weather were rewarded with clement skies after a week of winter harshness. Martha, heartier than most and almost never falling ill, had caught a slight cold during their confinement and had been ordered to her bed by her young mistress. Leaving Lucy at home to complete her schoolwork and see to Martha, Isabelle trudged the snow crested mile into town for supplies, her thoughts lost in Daniel.

She and the captain had continued to spend the mornings together in their shared room working on the biography during the long, tedious day of the storm. Daniel's narration was complete at this point, so they sorted and organized the notes Isabelle had made of their conversations along with the information she had gathered from the local population. There was little conversation between them as Isabelle began writing in earnest, piecing the chapters together from the vignettes of information collected on her desk and strewn across the tea table, furniture and any other flat surface available. While she wrote, Daniel quietly stood vigil near the balcony, answering the occasional question or clarifying an event as Isabelle diligently pursued penning the work. Sometimes she'd read aloud to test the sentence structure or the flow of the words on the ear. For Daniel, it was strange to see his life rendered on sheets of paper, or to hear it articulated in the sweet strains of Isabelle's voice, but he admitted that she had a way of drawing the listener in.

His story, the story that he wanted his son to hear, was coming along rapidly, and he felt the weight of the purpose of his continued existence pressing on him with the placement of each word. For Isabelle, the desire to finish the work was driven by her need to continue to live independently was tempered by the captain's conviction that he'd have no reason to stay once it was done. Both had their reason to see the work completed, but were equally anxious about what the end of the collaboration would mean for them.

In the evenings, when Lucy and Martha were bedded down in their own rooms, Isabelle continued to seek the solace of the kitchen for tea and conversation as she had before her fireside profession of love for Daniel. She conversed with him as before, but they had only broached the subject of her feelings for him that one time before the hearth. She felt sure that the captain returned her sentiments, but he refused to reciprocate her feelings; neither would he encourage her to draw him out. Whenever she began to broach the topic, he would tell her of the strange beckoning of the afterlife and how he had resisted it, and that it was his belief that his desire to contact his son was the only thing that gave him the power to remain grounded to this world; that the completion of their work would mark the end of his time.

Although he remained polite, he had become withdrawn and distant. She understood why he had cooled toward her since her disclosure, but it left a dull ache in her heart that she found difficult to reconcile. When Isabelle had first encountered Daniel, she half believed that her lonely imagination had conjured him into existence. She had shuttled between believing herself half-mad and being mystified that an actual ghost had made himself at home with her. Now, she believed herself equally mad for having fallen in love with him, but fallen in love she had. Daniel's face and form had become her ideal; their hours spent working and talking together became the source of her strength and happiness. She could hardly pinpoint the exact moment when she realized her that she loved him: it was as if he had always been beside her, like the echoes of her own thoughts and contemplations. To think of losing him to the next world was unbearable. When she had suggested they find a way to keep him from vanishing, he had smiled sadly and told her to look to the living for companionship.

Trudging into town as she contemplated her dilemma, she was so lost in thought that she scarcely noticed her surroundings. Isabelle had always been smitten with the world around her, delighting in the seasonal garb nature assigned to the landscape no matter the degree of inclemency or comfort. Thought of Daniel leaving her, however, left a pallor over her usually vivacious spirit so that even the cold serenity of the winter morning failed to gain her attention. Neither the stark contrasts of the slumbering woods nor the sparkling facets of the sun shimmered snow banks held enough charm to draw her from her inward focus as the snow crunched beneath her boots. So, lost in her thoughts, Isabelle soon found herself entering the little hamlet of Storybrooke. Though bitter cold, many of the towns' people were about, either renewing supplies depleted during the cold snap, or seeking a distraction from the confinement of their homes. Several people greeted her, breaking her reverie and eliciting from her the warm smile she was known for. Turning her thoughts to her errands, she soon found the little pharmacy opened by Mr. Clark some months past. There she purchased a bottle of cough syrup for Martha, and a small bag of licorice whips for Lucy.

Soon after, Isabelle entered the local mercantile, immediately appreciative the relieving warmth inside. She greeted the shopkeeper, Mrs. Liddel, momentarily distracting the good woman's attention from a dark stranger leaning against the counter. Paying them no further heed, she made her way to the dry-goods section and began leafing through a pattern book. Lucy was growing out of her dresses, and would need some new ones soon. Taking advantage of the cold weather, she and Martha could produce several new frocks for the child in very little time. After making her selection from the book on the counter, she consulted with the now free shopkeeper who went to the back room to find two patterns in the correct size. While she waited, Isabelle looked through the yard goods and selected several fabrics to be cut, as well as suitable thread and a few needles. Mrs. Liddel soon returned, and cut the necessary yardage, wrapped the fabric, needles and thread in parchment, and then took it to the counter for safekeeping.

Removing Martha's list from her coat pocket, Isabelle began filling her basket with several spices, a cake of dried figs, a pound of sugar and some currents. She worked her way down the isles, selecting various baking items and a few utensils, adding these to the burden of her basket as she mused distractedly over her breach with Daniel. _Stubborn man!_ She turned to a shelf filled with various tins of tea and began rifling through the selections, absently reading the labels to herself until she accidentally knocked two small tins from the shelf, watching irritably as they clattered to the floor.

"Blast," she muttered under her breath. Bending down, she set her basket on the floor and began reaching for the tins. Grabbing one just a step to the left, she then reached forward to her right, colliding with a male hand as it latched onto the other tin. Startled, Isabelle looked up into a pair of icy blue eyes framed by dark lashes and paired with an amused, lopsided grin. Of course, the fact those eyes were set in one of the handsomest faces she had ever seen left Isabelle a bit flustered. She drew in a breath and simply stared for a moment. His grin deepened into a smile and he cocked his head to the side, breaking the spell he had cast.

Shaking herself out of the fog she had entered, Isabelle let out a self depreciating laugh and said apologetically, "I'm sorry, that was rather clumsy of me."

"Nothing to be sorry for, love," a very confident and slightly accented voice deferred. Quickly rising to his feet with the tin in one hand, he offered her a hand up with the other. Rising, Isabelle thanked him and smoothed her skirts. Then, holding the tin out to her he said, "I believe you dropped this, my lady."

"Yes, I did, thank you," she said, taking the small container and placing it in her basket and returning the other to the shelf.

"Killian Jones."

Confused, she blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"

Taking a step closer and dropping his voice as if drawing her into a secret, he repeated, "Killian Jones. My name."

Isabelle began to feel flustered again at his nearness, and took a step back before extending her hand to him. "I'm Mrs. Mills," she said politely.

Jones firmly took her hand and cocked an eyebrow. "Missus, huh?" Bowing over her small hand and keeping his eyes trained on hers, he placed a light kiss upon her knuckles and sighed. "I should have known such a beautiful lady was taken."

_ He's flirting. _ "Yes, well, thank you." Isabelle laughed with mild amusement and, shaking her head, turned away from him to focus on the remaining items on her list. Though married young, she had been on the receiving end of flirtatious communications in the social events she's attended and endured throughout her tenure in the Mills residence and knew enough to not be drawn in. _He looks like a scoundrel_ , she thought; _all worldly wise and not to be trusted. She'd been taken in by a pretty face once before._

She soon made her way back to the counter and handed her basket over to Mrs. Liddel, waiting patiently as her purchases were added up.

"That will be eight dollars and twenty-seven cents, Mrs. Mills, "the shopkeeper informed her.

"Put it on my account, please, Mrs. Liddel."

The woman leveled an uncomfortable gaze on Isabelle and offered quietly, "very well, Mrs. Mills, but you do realize your account is beginning to grow quite large, and it is due at the end of the month?"

"I am aware, Mrs. Liddel," Isabelle responded. She hated building up her debt, and hated being reminded of it even more. The finances were indeed getting tight, but she still had enough to support her family for a while longer.

The clerk liked the young widow, and nodded companionably as Isabelle signed the bill. She quickly arranged the items back in the basket, even slipping in a peppermint stick for Lucy and one for her friend Martha "to sooth her throat." Securing a snowy, white hand towel over it, she handed the basket back to Isabelle and wished her farewell.

The reminder of her increasing debt served to further dampen Isabelle's spirits, and she strode distractedly through the front door and into the frigid air. She was angry, not at the clerk for pointing out her mounting bills, but at her mother-in-law for creating her present circumstances. Why had she interfered with Isabelle's income? She wasn't naïve enough to think that Cora merely wanted to bring Isabelle home so she could care for her and Lucy. No, she must have some other purpose in mind. Distracted by her inner musings, she grasped the railing with her free hand and placed her foot on the downward step, only to slip on the icy board and twist her left ankle. "Blast it!" she hissed as a sharp pain shot through the offended ankle and she settled heavily on the top step. Biting her bottom lip, a tear slipped from her eye as she began rubbing the ankle, trying to alleviate the pain.

"What's this, love? Are you alright?"

Jones, having just left the store himself, settled on the step next to her. Isabelle looked up at him sheepishly. "I slipped. I wasn't paying attention."

Seeing how urgently she rubbed her left ankle, Jones grinned roguishly and moved further down the steps to kneel in front of her. Lifting her booted foot onto his knee, he carefully turned it over in his hand, gently squeezing the ankle to test its strength. Isabelle winced and sucked in a painful breath.

Jones cocked his head to the side and gently lowered her offending foot to the snow-covered steep and offered his assessment. "I think the lady may have done some damage."

His hand lingered on her booted foot and he wiggled his eyebrows at her, causing her to laugh. "I'll be fine, really. It's not that bad."

His grin said he bet her otherwise, and he was willing to put her to the test. "Well then, let's get you to your feet and test that theory." Standing, he offered his hand for the second time that morning.

Isabelle rose with his assistance and tested her weight on the ankle, gingerly taking a few steps on the snow-laden street. It hurt dreadfully, though she was sure it was nothing more than a bad sprain. After a few steps, the ankle wobbled and she started to fall, releasing a startled cry. Luckily, as Jones was shadowing her efforts, he quickly shored her up and prevented her from crashing onto the snowy avenue.

He held her from behind, with his arms circling around her waist and his chest against her back. Her slight frame fit against him perfectly and her hair smelled . . . divine. She turned her face, looking over her shoulder to see him. Her large, cerulean eyes were exquisitely framed by dark lashes and there was a delightful dusting of faint freckles running over her cheeks and nose. And her mouth . . . it was sensuous and perfect and he was suddenly intrigued by the idea of making that mouth laugh and cry and sigh with contentment. She was altogether as lovely up close as she was from a distance, and Jones found himself smitten in spite of himself. She was saying something.

"Mr. Jones, you can let go now," Isabelle repeated.

"Oh . . . right," he said, hesitating only a moment more before releasing her.

He watched her limp over to the steps to retrieve her basket and waited for her to turn and face him again. When she did, she gifted him with a genuine smile and extended her hand, accepting his in a firm handshake. "Thank you for all of your help. It was really very kind of you."

"Not at all," he responded. Wait . . . she was leaving? He couldn't let her get away this quickly. They'd just met, after all, and he didn't want to let this opportunity escape him. Still holding her hand, he ventured, "Perhaps you'd care to join me for lunch? There's a good menu at the diner up the street."

The beauty shook her head as she withdrew her hand from his. "That's very kind, but I really must be getting home."

"Right," he answered, "that 'missus' part."

Isabelle responded with a very unladylike snort. "Nothing like that; I'm a widow." She shook her head at Jones raised brows and lopsided grin. _Men!_ "I have to get back home to my daughter and my housekeeper."

"A widow . . . you don't say?" He seemed quite pleased at this news. "Well, now, it would be poor form indeed to allow a poor, wounded widow to brave the elements alone and unchampioned." He reached out and snatched the basket from her with one hand and then offered her the opposite arm. "I am at your service, my lady."

Isabelle laughed. "That really isn't necessary."

"Oh, but I insist." Jones, still standing with his arm proffered, waited patiently for the widow . . . _it had taken her long enough to divulge_ that _information_ . . . to accept his offer. Finally, Isabelle sighed and placed her gloved hand in the crook of Jones' elbow. "That's a good girl," he said a bit smugly. "Now, which direction?"

Pointing up  Moncton Avenue , she conceded, "about a mile up the street; past the docks and along the beach front." Taking his arm, she allowed him to steady her as she walked, favoring the sprained ankle as they began the trek homeward.

She surmised he was a stranger as she had met almost everyone in town at one time or another, and her curiosity got the better of her. "So, Mr. Jones, what brings you to Storybrooke?"

Casting a cocky glance her direction and answered, "Would you believe that Fate brought me here just to make sure a clumsy . . . but beautiful . . . widow made it home in one piece?"

Shaking her head, she said with an amused expression, "No, I wouldn't believe that!"

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," he sighed. "Very well; I was sailing along the coastline and put in for the storm. I'll be heading back to  Boston tomorrow. Not as exciting as rescuing damsels in distress, but there's my tale."

"You have a boat?"

"A sailboat, yes."

Isabelle looked at her companion, imagining the smooth-talker sailing the coastline all alone amidst sails and rigging on an endless ocean going anywhere and everywhere. "You in a boat . . . that I can believe." She flashed him a mischievous grin and added, "You do remind me of a pirate now that I think about it!"

"A pirate?" he asked, feigning shock. He pretended to mull it over for a moment and then flashed her a roguish grin before admitting, "A pirate; I like that. Maybe I'll add it to my resume."

"Along side of what other occupation, might I ask?"

"Well, now, that's a long list, love," he countered. "I served in the Navy until I discovered some underhanded doings of my superiors. Since they benefited myself in no way, I resigned my commission. After that, I worked on various transport vessels on the high sees; not all of it completely legal, mind you," he winked. "Then, I worked at odd jobs here and there, made a little money, picked up a few skills. I discovered I had a talent for photography and stinging a few sentences together, so now I work as a photo-journalist."

Isabelle was intrigued in spite of herself. That her unsolicited benefactor was completely unscrupulous, she had no doubt, but her natural curiosity got the better of her and she wanted to know more about him. "What do you do, exactly?"

Having tapped into the fact that Jones was his own favorite subject, the sailor-turned journalist regaled her with stories of his travels along the coasts of North and  South America and the  Caribbean , chronicling the misfortunes of others for the very powerful newspaper industries. He had been in New York in April when the survivors of the ill-fated RMS Titanic had been brought to port; in May, he sailed with a company of Marines to Nicaragua as political tensions mounted, and then to Cuba in June; by August, he had grown weary of the political upheaval in the Caribbean and set sail on his own up the port cities along the eastern seaboard. He'd returned to his home in  Boston for a few weeks before packing up and leisurely roaming the coastal waters looking for something to strike his fancy. Finally, he had followed last weeks storm to the  harbor of  Storybrooke to see what kind of damage the gale would cause. To that end, he had been holed up in a room above the disreputable Rabbit Hole for over a week with nothing to do and no one to talk to until he had ventured out today.

Isabelle was fascinated with his work. How did he know where to go, who to talk to? Was he in danger? How did he get people to tell him their stories? Jones, in turn, was surprised at her intelligence, her grasp of the political workings of the nations whose tensions he had been chronically ad nauseam. He found himself enjoying her animated observations as her free hand gestured about to emphasize her words, the flush of her face in the chill air and the inner workings of her bright mind reflected in her eyes. He realized that she was very adept at drawing him out without divulging too much information about herself. They had left behind his flirtatious intentions and were deep in a discussion of the year's most newsworthy events when he realized they had reached their destination.

Pausing by the gate leading into the snow laden yard, Jones raised his eyes to the formidable Victorian with its cobbled-together look and odd angles and said incredulously, "You live in this monstrosity?"

Defensively, she declared, "it's not a monstrosity!"

"It's pink!"

"It's salmon."

Jones turned a bemused eye upon the pretty widow and offered her a genuine smile. "It suits you."

Returning his smile, she said, "thank you, Mr. Jones."

"Killian," he corrected her. She started to argue, so he quickly took her small hand in his and drew closer, his icy blue eyes never leaving her warm azure orbs. "As I see it, love, I've rescued you twice this fair morning, and braved the elements to see you safely home. That makes us friends now, doesn't it?" Smiling amusedly, she nodded. "Well then, friends address each other by first name, don't they?" He drew her hand to his lips as he leaned in closer and pressed a small kiss upon it. "I consider you my friend. Won't you return the favor?"

Isabelle laughed heartily; definitely a flirt, but harmless to her. "Alright, then . . . Killian." She withdrew her hand and took her basket from him. Swinging the gate open, she passed through it and closed it between them before offering, "and you may call me Isabelle."

"Isabelle. The name suits you." Jones grinned. "Oh, my dear Isabelle, you and I are going to be such good friends!"

"I'm sure we are," she said agreeably.

Jones leaned onto the gate, mischief radiating from him. "I leave for  Boston tomorrow, and will be there for a few weeks. Do I have your permission to write to you?"

Isabelle grew excited at the prospect. Here was a real author whose works had been published. He may be able to answer some questions or know a publisher who would look at her work. Perhaps it had been providential the two of them meeting. "Yes, I'd like that. Just address it to Isabelle Mills, Storybrooke. The Post Mistress will get it to me; advantages of living in a small town."

After bidding each other farewell, Isabelle quickly made her way to the house. Jones had kept his place by the gate, watching her walk up to the porch, her walk graceful in spite of her limp. _The pretty young widow was delightful!_ He'd had no hope that she would be, and it came as a pleasant surprise. She was beautiful, and smart and funny, and he knew she'd consume a lot of his thoughts over the next few months. Well, he'd spent his time in worse ways than dwelling on the gentle figure and winsome smile and amazing eyes of a lonely widow before. Smiling at his good fortune, he turned toward the little village where he'd find his room, bid a last farewell to his very accommodating barmaid and pack for his return to  Boston .

** XXXXX **

Daniel watched Isabelle leave through the gate earlier that morning. She had begged off their usual routine of writing to go to town for medicine and supplies after several days of being cooped up in the house. So, bundled in a warm, woolen coat, knitted hat and mittens, and carrying a basket with which to tote home the necessities she would buy, Isabelle had ventured beyond the gate of their home to the world that lay outside. Daniel stood in the master bedroom brooding. When he had been among the living, he had always enjoyed taking risks and had fearlessly tread any path he desired. Now, having been deprived of life and breath for almost five years, he felt like a condemned man whose days could be numbered on one hand. Condemned. Cut off. Useless.

It had been a week and a day since Isabelle had told him that she loved him, and it was tearing him apart. He had purposely avoided making a declaration of his own. Her profession of love had been the most healing moment of his existence, but he realized at once that love between them would be impossible. That he loved Belle with all that he was, well with all that was left of him, was unquestionable. She was absolutely the most incredible woman he had ever met, beautiful inside and outside, and he'd have given his soul to live again and claim her as his own. That she loved him in return was unfathomable. Those few he had loved were lost to him long ago through death or separation, and even when he had been with them, he had forged no deep attachments for himself among them. A week ago, he believed he had done the right thing to keep his feelings to himself; now, he yearned to yield to the temptation of giving her the love she wanted.

The forced living arrangements that they shared meant there were no other interests to distract him from interacting with her. They spent a large portion of the day together working on their book, and an hour or two every evening in conversation. Part of Daniel feared that Isabelle's affections had grown from their forced exclusiveness. No suitors had approached her since she had removed her widow's weeds, and she had been forced to find a way to secure an income shortly afterward. Their work together left her no time to even pursue friendships in the village, let alone think about finding a suitable husband. What would happen once their work was finished? Surely she would realize her need for someone tangible to share her life with. Aside from love and companionship, he really had nothing more to offer her.

Another part of Daniel feared that he would have no choice but to cross into the next life as soon as the book was finished. He had no idea how he had been able to resist the pull this long, and didn't know if he would have the power to continue to resist it after his original goal was complete. Before Isabelle's arrival, he thought only of keeping the infrequent occurrence at bay long enough to find a way to reach his son. Now, he wanted to stay for Isabelle. It terrified him to think that he had no real control over destiny's pull and that making a commitment to Isabelle would only be feeding her false hope.

Frustrated, Daniel ran his hands through his hair, clasping them together behind his head, and he sighed in the gloom of the shadowed room. Feeling a need to clear his thoughts, he passed through the door to the balcony and took his usual vigil by the telescope. Centering the scope on the choppy waters of the coast, he focused on the turmoil of the winter sea, its frantic movement mirroring his own emotions. He loved the sea: tranquil and familiar one moment, violent and unknown the next. She had been his mistress most of his life, and she had never lost her allure. Life at sea was risky, and he had always been more than willing to face her challenges no matter the cost. He respected her, the wild and winsome abyss, and she had offered him wealth from her bounty. Life at sea had also been a deadly game of chance, the threat of disaster or death hanging like a pendulum over his neck every moment of every day. He had been fearless in courting the lovely ocean and had benefited from the affair in every way possible. True, she had taken him far from his son and his homeland, but she had also brought him to a new shore with a promise of prosperity and renewal. She had given him wealth and vocation and identity. She had given him everything he'd asked of her, but she couldn't give him love.

He wanted love. He had been deprived of it when he'd sought it, and now he found himself languishing before it as a starving man who refuses a banquet. As he stared now at the frigid and brackish waters churning and twisting at the whim of the tides, he felt no beckoning from her familiar caress. No, the draw he felt now came from a petite, dark-haired beauty whose fragile frame threatened to engulf him in ways the seafaring life never had. Turning away from the lens, he shifted his attention to the little stretch of beach and the road that Isabelle had trod Storybrooke. His Belle was nothing like the sea. No threat of peril lay in her embrace, nor did her moods shift and swing in confounded directions. She was warm and consistent, kind and accepting, and she offered him hope and happiness with a resilience that was unshakable. He had no fear that she would ever fail him or cease to care for him.

That she was worthy of love was not his dilemma. Rather, it was his present state that posed the problem between them. In the world they shared together, he was the restless sea and she the steady vessel that sought her fortune upon his moody countenance. He feared he would fail her, pull the wind out of her sails and leave her broken. _My Belle is no fool_ , he reminded himself. She knew what the stakes were; that any time they had together may be cut short at any moment. With him, she'd have to continue to provide for herself and her family, and it pricked his pride that he would not be able to provide for her. And yet, they were so suited to one another that she could never have the kind of companionship they shared with anyone else. He was at a loss: should he accept the love she offered for whatever time they had left, or release her to find a life with someone else? It should be an easy choice for a condemned man, if that man weren't selfish.

As he struggled for an answer, he saw Isabelle returning from town. From his vantage point on the balcony he could see her hand tucked firmly on the arm of a strange man clad in dark garments. They were walking hip to hip, huddled closely together and conversing animatedly. Daniel felt jealousy bloom within him instantly. Grinding his teeth, he watched as his Belle leaned against the interloper, her animated face eliciting a smile from her unknown companion. Well, his fear she'd had no time for suitors had proven to be unfounded after all. Hot anger seared through him as he watched his lovely Belle pass through the gate and exchange one last pleasantry with the picaroon before turning her back on him and making her way into the house. He kept his eye on the unknown man, observed him watching Isabelle with undisguised interest as she walked away from him. Finally, after hearing the front door close, and Isabelle was safe within the confines of their home, the man below turned and began down the path returning to town.

So, his emotional turmoil may be for nothing as it appeared Isabelle was well suited to find companionship with someone other than himself. He hadn't like the looks of the rake who had walked so closely with his Belle. He knew nothing about him nor why Belle had allowed him to escort her. What he did know was that he absolutely hated the way Isabelle had smiled at the stranger, sharing her laughter with him and leaning her small frame upon him. The tide had turned on him in one moment, and a great wave had dashed him against the crags. Moments ago, he had debated the merits of acknowledging his love for her; now he may have lost her altogether.


	12. Conversations and Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When You Say You Love Me by Josh Groban  
> References are made to The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

After shrugging off her coat, scarf and gloves in the foyer, Isabelle limped to the kitchen with her basket. Lucy rose from her seat at the work table and flung her short arms around her mother's waist.

Isabelle clasped the child close to her with a greeting, "hello, darling. Did you miss me?"

"Yes, mama," Lucy replied. "What's wrong with your leg?"

Isabelle leaned against the work table for support. "Nothing is wrong with my leg, sweetheart. I turned my ankle in town. It will be fine, but you can help me put the food away."

Lucy was happy to help, so Isabelle began unpacking the items she had purchased and, with the child's assistance, they were soon shifted into their places in the organized kitchen. Afterward, Lucy resumed her chair to put the finishing touches on a drawing she was working on, several colored pencils close at hand. Ladling soup into a bowl and setting it on a tray, Isabelle asked, "How is Martha, darling?"

"She's been sleeping," Lucy informed her, concentrating on her work.

"Well, you must have been lonely, then."

"No, not really," Lucy returned.

Isabelle chuckled. Since coming to Storybrooke, Lucy had lost her former tendencies to cling to her mother, clamoring for her attention. Life with the Mills had isolated the naturally gregarious child, as 'Grandmama' had controlled every social interaction of her daughter-in-law and granddaughter tenaciously, always with an eye for making the "right" connections or deterring embarrassment to the family. After admiring her precious girl a few moments, she turned her attention back to the task at hand.

As she prepared the tray for Martha, Isabelle reflected on the conversation she'd had with Killian Jones. How fortunate she was to have run into him. An author! Well, a journalist, at least. She'd begun to worry that she'd complete the book, only to falter at the task of getting it published. After all, how does one go about soliciting a publisher to read and then purchase your work? What if the first . . . or the second or third . . . publisher wasn't interested in her book? Her funds were running low and they needed it to be published as soon as possible, or she and Daniel would be lost. She couldn't wait to tell him!

After taking a few minutes to secure Martha with a tray in her bedroom, Isabelle returned to the kitchen. Having already heated a kettle, she made herself a cup of tea and poured Lucy a small glass of milk from the ice box. Setting the milk and a bowl of soup in front of her hungry daughter, she took the chair opposite of her. Digging eagerly into her lunch, Lucy scooted her pencils and paper to the side.

Isabelle reached over and picked up the drawing to see what had preoccupied the girl while she'd been away to town. Lucy loved making fanciful pictures from her very fertile mind, and drew well for a child her age. Isabelle expected to see a fair rendering of whatever danced in her imagination on a cold winter day, but the image wrought by the child's hand was completely unexpected. Drawn in bold lines was what appeared to be a man in sailor's garb, standing on what was arguably the deck of a ship. The likeness of the ship's wheel was left of the sailor, black iron railing behind him and fluffy sails above him; and about his neck, what appeared to be the carcass of a large bird, its wings and head limply hanging over the sailor's blue striped shirt. To his right, stood another man, one slim and whiskered, wearing a captains hat and a serious frown. Isabelle thrilled a bit to see such a drawing rendered by her daughter's small hand as her head was usually filled with fairy tales and what passed for social events among her fellow students. Turning her gaze to the child, she asked, "What is this, Lucy?"

Swallowing a bite of potato, Lucy answered distractedly, "that's the Mariner with the alter-toss."

Isabelle smiled behind her hand. "Do you mean an albatross?" she asked.

Lucy nodded her head enthusiastically. "Yes, a big bird that flies over ships. They're lucky. Unless you shoot it down, then it's bad for everyone!"

"Is that so?"

Lucy turned wide eyes her mother. "Yes, Mama. It's in the poem about a mariner, that's a seaman, who kills an alter, I mean a . . . " they said the word together ' _albatross'_ . . . "and everybody died!"

"They did?"

"Oh, yes, all except the old mariner. It was because they tied the dead bird on his neck." Lucy stopped a moment, looking thoughtfully up at her amused mother. "I think that would smell bad, having a dead bird on you."

"Yes, I think it would," Isabelle laughed. She had read _The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner_ a number of times and loved the melancholy theme and the steady rhythm of its meters. It was one of Daniel's favorite poems and he had introduced the piece to her several months back. _How strange_. Looking at the drawing more closely, she paid special attention to the man standing next to Lucy's rather dramatic mariner. There was something strikingly familiar about the figure. Pointing to the drawing, she asked, "Lucy, who is this man?"

Lucy looked to the figure her mother pointed at, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip as she thought about her answer. "That's Captain Gold."

"The man in the portrait in my room?"

Lucy took a long drink from her milk before answering. "Yes, the man in your room."

Isabelle blushed at the way Lucy had made her casual remark. "Um, yes. Well, why did you draw him?"

Lucy's eyes widened and she shrugged. "He's the captain. He goes on the ship."

** XXXXX **

Daniel kept his vigil on the balcony for some time after Isabelle had come home and the stranger had long since disappeared down the cold street leading back to the village. He could hear her scurrying around below, tending to household duties and to her young daughter. He held on to those sounds, thought of her stowing her purchases, putting on the kettle, taking a tray to the ailing housekeeper. Within minutes, the kettle sang out and he envisioned her returning to the kitchen, making a pot of tea, ladling soup for herself and little Lucy. He could see her ever present smile warmly bestowed on the child as she prattled on about the fancy gleanings of her fertile, young imagination.

He concentrated on each step she took and blocked out all other thoughts for the span of half an hour. He didn't think of her walking up the snow-laden street with the dark haired stranger. He didn't think of how easily she had smiled at him, nor the lingering gaze of the interloper as he watched _his Belle_ walk up the pathway to the home they shared . . . _my home_. Quietly he followed the echoes of her stirrings through the heart of the house until she ceased to stir: _she must be eating lunch with the wee lass now._ The distraction of her movements gone, he sighed and reluctantly set his mind on the unsettling scene that had played out for him at the gate below his window.

So, a man from the village had walked her home, had shared conversation, a smile, a parting glance. It was unexpected. Belle had been to Storybrooke more times than he could count and, aside from the doddering Cogsworth, not once had she been escorted home. Scarcely a week had passed since her declaration of love for him; a week since he'd chosen not to reciprocate with his own feelings. Too great a gulf existed between them for him to stake a claim on her affections. His reasons to keep his distance were valid. What could they be to one another given their circumstances?

He had no right to be jealous.

It was only natural that he be drawn to her. She was curious, fearless, smart and loyal, and she faced life with an unquenchable humor he'd never before witnessed, and she was more beautiful than any woman had a right to be. What could she possibly find worthy in him, a dead man? Even when he lived he'd been selfish, driven, and humorless. Now, when he had no choice but to leave his ambitions behind and had time to evaluate what was really important, it was too late. Life no longer belonged to him and he had no idea how to go about staying longer than the time he thought he'd been granted for his cause. The young widow deserved to spend her life with someone substantial, not the shadow he was now. Besides, those moments when he'd vanished _proved_ that he could leave her at any time, with neither of them knowing when or if he'd return. He feared making a commitment to her when he could never truly assure her he would be with her for her lifetime. It terrified him to think of leaving her alone, broken hearted and grieving. True he'd been successful at resisting the pull of the next world, but for all he knew it could just be a matter of time.

His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of Isabelle's footfalls on the staircase. Opening the door moments later, she called out to him. "Daniel, you're here!" Her face aglow, she reached for him, took his hands and pulled him to the settee to sit beside her, though he continued to stand as she took her seat. "You'll never believe who I met today!"

Daniel's chest suddenly felt constricted. "A dark haired rouge to fetch ye home?" he suggested testily.

Isabelle gave him a wrye smile before answering. "Actually, I turned my ankle and he _helped_ me walk home." Daniel noticed for the first time that she had, indeed, been limping as she'd made her way across the floor to the settee. Cursing under his breath, he knelt before her and then carefully held her left ankle in his hand as he began unlacing the boot.

"Really, Daniel, that isn't necessary, it's not that – ow!"

He gingerly removed the small, black, leather boot and set it out of his way. Disregarding the blush now dominating her face as her lower leg was bared to his scrutiny, he rolled her stocking down and saw that the ankle was quite swollen indeed. "Not that bad," Daniel smirked. A purplish bruise was forming across the top of her arch and around the outside of the ankle itself. Gently, he caressed her small foot, the coolness of his touch eliciting a soft moan from Isabelle. He raised his eyes to hers and saw that his touch was indeed affecting her in very pleasant ways. His feelings mirrored hers, but instead of acknowledging it, he smiled a bit wistfully and softly teased, "Belle, ye have to be the clumsiest woman on the Eastern seaboard."

"Yes, Daniel," she agreed breathlessly. Her eyes, fair as dawn's light, seemed more luminous against the dusky rose tint of her cheeks as she responded. Their eyes locked on one another while he tenderly cradled her wounded foot and they silently regarded each other, longing evident in their exchange.

Fearing the moment was becoming a bit too much for either of them, he gently set her foot on the floor and, rising, retreated to his usual place near the balcony doors. "Ye'd best put ice the thin' afore it swells up on ye, me dear."

Looking down and feeling a bit rejected, her answer was barely a whispered, "yes, Daniel." _Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn man!_ Reining her emotions, Isabelle leaned forward and replaced her stocking, covering the sprained ankle. Now that the boot had been removed, it was swelling in earnest so putting it back on was not an option. Now it was throbbing, too. She really would have to ice the ankle.

Stealing her resolve not to be deterred by Daniel's standoffishness, she returned to her good news, although a bit more subdued than before. "The man I met, Killian Jones, is an author." She watched him, trying to gauge his reaction, but he merely stared out of the window. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Aye." Daniel, now distant, kept his eyes trained on the hazy seashore outside of the window, his arms crossed over his chest.

Isabelle told him about Jones travels around the coast and the  Caribbean as he chronicled the various wars and skirmishes for newspapers. As she spoke, and her excitement grew, Daniel heard only half of what she said. He was angry and jealous, although he knew that he had no right to be. After all, it had been his decision to reject Belle's affections. Perhaps this writer, this rouge Jones, would be good for her, even be someone she could spend her life with. Of course, these musings only served to depress him further.

"What do you think?"

Isabelle's voice interrupted his thoughts and he realized that he hadn't heard much of what she'd said. "I'm sorry, me dear. I didn't hear that last part," he admitted sheepishly.

Isabelle sighed exasperatedly. "Daniel, listen this time." She scooted over to the far corner of the settee and patted the seat next to her. When he failed to move, she raised an expectant eyebrow and patted the seat again. "Come . . . sit down."

The captain ran his hands through his hair, clasping his fingers together at the back of his neck, sighing deeply as he collected his thoughts. Dropping his hands, he reluctantly walked over to the settee and sat beside her. "All right, ye've got me attention. What is so important about this Mr. Jones?"

Isabelle hesitated a moment, his close proximity causing a distracing flutter in her stomach. She liked having him near. "Well, as I was saying," she started, "Mr. Jones writes articles about his travels and about the wars going on down in  South America and  Cuba . He sells those articles to newspapers and publishers." He stared at her blankly, so she stated the obvious, "he knows publishers."

He stared at her for a few moments. "And?"

Isabelle grinned at the captain, taken again with how handsome he was. "So, we have a book, Daniel. When it's finished, we have no idea what step to take next. We'll need a publisher, and Killian . . . Mr. Jones . . . _knows_ publishers. He's offered to help me find the right one for our book."

_ She's right _ , Daniel thought. They really hadn't considered how to get the book published once they completed it, and it would be completed soon. He was sure he didn't like the interloper, but he still understood the advantage of a well placed contact; finding an ally who could grease the wheels toward successfully making that happen was just good business. _One more thing a live man can do that a dead one can't_. "It's a good idea. How will he make that happen?"

"He's going home to  Boston tomorrow, but promised to write me soon. We'll work it out by the time the book is finished."

"Good," Daniel concluded. He looked at Isabelle sitting beside him, warm and lovely, her presence making him feel more alive than he should. She loved him, of that he had no doubt. She'd told him what her heart held, but had neither demanded he return her sentiments nor snuffled about the house weeping that he hadn't. She continued as she had before: beautiful, brilliant and beguiling. She really didn't play fair.

Isabelle returned his gaze, sensing his sadness, and she knew what plagued him. He loved her, of that she had no doubt. He hadn't said it, had rebuffed her own profession of love because he believed he had nothing to offer her: no marriage, no partnership, no monetary support. He hadn't said it, but she felt it nonetheless. Yet, still he remained as he had before: steadfast, supportive and sensual. He really didn't play fair.

Well, who said love was fair?

Deciding they needed a new topic, Isabelle cleared her throat and looked askance at the captain with a bemused smile. Pulling a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her apron, she began opening it as she addressed the spirit of the man sitting next to her. "Now, Captain Gold, you should see the lovely picture Lucy drew this morning."

Hesitating for a moment in regard to her sudden playfulness, Daniel took the paper she offered. There in childish scrawl he recognized a very passable rendering of a ship, with railing, wheel and billowing sails. There were pointed crests of blue waves beneath brown planks and even an anchor hanging from the bow. He grinned proudly. The lass had an eye, that was sure. Aye, she loved the sea, that he well knew. What's more, she loved the old poem he was fond of quoting, and blimey, if that wasn't the old mariner, with scraggly hair and beard, clad in a striped shirt and about his neck the dead albatross, just as he'd . . . _oh!_

Shifting his eyes sideways, he imparted a innocent glance toward Isabelle's knowing expression. "The lass draws well," he offered.

"She does indeed. Remarkable details for an eight year old, don't you think?"

"Oh, yeah, remarkable." Daniel studied the drawing as if it were a masterpiece.

Isabelle moved a little closer to him, her hand gesturing above the drawing in his hands. "You can tell the sailors are on the deck of a ship."

"Seamen, confound it. 'Sailor' is a landlubbers' word."

"And the . . . seaman's . . . clothes are fairly accurate."

"I noticed that."

"And what is that, captain," she said pointing, "there about the seaman's neck?"

Daniel brought the paper closer to his face, appearing to scrutinize the drawing. "It looks vera much like a . . . bird . . . of some sort."

"Like an albatross, perhaps?"

"Aye, now that ye mention it, it's the vera likeness of an albatross."

"Almost like she'd heard _The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner_."

"Aye. It's a vera good renderin'."

"That's strange, since I've never read it to her."

"Ah, ye must have, dearie. How else would the lass ha' heard it?"

"Mmm hmm." Isabelle leaned over and pointed to the dark clad figure standing beside the mariner. "And who do you think this is?"

Refusing to take the bait, Daniel grinned. "I'm sure I ha' no idea, but I must say, he's rather handsome, wouldn't ye agree?"

Isabelle answered with a snort. "Why, yes he is," she conceded, "quite handsome. The funny thing is, Lucy says it's you."

Daniel finally looked up from the drawing, looking straight into Isabelle's mischievous blue eyes and winked. "Well, fancy that." Then, for the first time in a week, he gave her a genuine smile. "Me portrait must have made an impression on the lass."

** XXXXX **

** Boston ** ** ,  ** ** Massachusetts ** ** , one week later.  **

Killian Jones liked nothing better than a rare steak and a tankard of good ale. The club he was waiting in served only the best to its illustrious clientele, those whose stares branded him for his common clothes and lack of gentility: stares such as those from a well-dressed couple across from him. Locking his eyes on the plain-faced and over-dressed wife, he raised his cup to his lips and drained it. Setting the empty vessel aside, he slowly licked his lips and winked seductively at the lady, who flushed under his scrutiny. Sniffing loudly, her husband growled an angry response at her and they both looked away, concentrating on their own plates.

He wasn't used to the high standards of the exclusive club he was meeting his employer in, but he was willing to submit to the speculative stares of the other patrons since he wasn't paying. It wasn't his usual haunt; in fact, he'd never been inside before. He preferred darker, seedier places where he could get hard liquor served by friendly trollops; where the patrons shared the bond of hiding dark deeds in darker corners. He liked ruffians and thugs because you knew where you stood with them. He preferred the honesty that came with men who acknowledged what they were, who knew you were one of them. No one played games of false flattery and polite conversation, and his own kind wielded weapons of flint and steel instead of money, politics and subterfuge. 

Still, the steak was excellent.

She was late. Again. He'd waited for what he'd considered to be a polite thirty minutes past their appointment time before he'd ordered dinner. Now, he was almost finished with his steak and was halfway through his second beer before he saw her enter the club. She'd fixed her disapproving eye on him as she'd sauntered over to his table, her spine rod straight and her demeanor like that of a queen in her black silk dress and veiled hat. Killian wiped his mouth with his napkin and rose from his seat. Pulling out an adjoining chair, he greeted his employer as she took her seat. "Hello, Cora."

"Mr. Jones," she countered. She signaled the waitress as Killian reseated himself and ordered a dry sherry. "So, what do you have to report?"

Killian offered her his best lopsided grin. "Why yes, my dear Mrs. Mills, I had a very nice trip back from quaint, little Storybrooke without any mishaps. And yourself?"

Cora leveled her best boardroom glare on him with no effect. Her drink arrived and she waited until the waitress left before addressing him. "Mr. Jones, we are not friends, and have no need to exchange any pleasantries. I pay you good money, and I expect results. Now, tell me if you met my daughter-in-law, and if you managed to get into her good graces."

Raising his mug in salute, he took a drink before answering her. "Yes."

Leaning forward, Cora smiled. "Tell me everything."


	13. What Love Looks Like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this chapter came from the song True Colors by Celtic Women.

_ March 17, 1913 _

_ My dearest Isabelle,  _

_ By my count, you've answered only one letter to my three, and I feel I must tell you how shattered my poor heart is by way of your neglect. However, knowing how very busy you are with your writing, I will overlook your unintentional indifference to me, your most loyal friend and admirer. It seems to me that you'd be more inclined to receive me in person rather than receive my poor scribbles.  _

_ You'll be glad to know that I've brought you to the attention of my publisher, Mr. A. Ferris Hopper. To be honest, he was not too pleased to entertain the notion of publishing a "woman's book," thinking you were one of the frivolous hordes of females penning simpering romances and books of poetry. I, of course, championed your cause and assured him that the most sensible and beautiful head rested upon your shoulders, so he's (rather begrudgingly) considering my request to meet with you and read a few chapters. I'll keep you abreast of any progress. _

_ I would, normally, assure you that there is no need to thank me for this invaluable service, but your continued lack of response prompts me to illicit from you an invitation to dinner when next I see you. I'll be making a trip to Storybrooke within the month, as soon as most of the winter ice has subsided, and will call on you then. _

_ Sincerely yours,  _

_ Killian _

** XXXXX **

_ March 30 _

_ To my friend, Killian,  _

_ I am so sorry that you feel neglected by way of the number of responses I've posted to your numerous letters. No slight is intended, I assure you. I shall try to do better in the future.  _

_ I can't tell you how grateful I am for your assistance in bringing my work to the attention of your publisher. You have truly been a friend to me in this endeavor! Of course, you are certainly welcome to my home for dinner when you arrive in our little hamlet, I insist on it. I look forward to introducing you to my daughter, Lucy, and my dear friend and housekeeper, Martha.  _

_ Your friend,  _

_ Isabelle _

** XXXXX **

The sun rose shyly on the first day of April, its rays stretching tentatively through the dusky gloom, gaining confidence as night gave way to breaking dawn. Darkness surrendered its prevalent reign to a frail hint of golden light on the horizon, a first cautious sparkling on the reflective waters of the ocean, only to transform into one great conflagration of splendid crimson, orange and purple, riding a tide of milder morning air from the sandy shoreline, nudging the night into the shadows of the forest floor. The music of spring rose with the morning as birds and insects, hungry for sustenance, lodging and mates, took wing among the treetops and tall grasses, chirping and singing and squawking in a symphony of life and renewal. Small pockets of still melting snow dripped wearily into the roots of their grassy beds, receding as nature yawned, stretched and woke to a warm day. Here and there, the first flowers of the season began craning their necks to the promise of sunlight, sleepy buds peeking out to catch the first rays of the day.

Daniel had watched the world awaken from his usual vantage by the telescope, from the moment the rosy dawn had peeked over the undulant waters of the harbor, to the moment it splashed across the railing of the balcony. Overlooking the front yard, he marveled at the soft greenness of the grass that had just yesterday been brittle and brown; at the wakening branches of tree and shrub alike, dotted with nodules, only days away from bursting forth with new leaves and sweet, colorful blooms. He heard the movement of dripping water as the last remaining drifts of snow sighed and gave up their strongholds in the shadowy places. By  midday , there would be nothing left of winter.

He turned his eyes to the doors leading into the bedroom where slumbered his own rose of spring, nestled deep in a catch of linens, silk and cotton. Following the light into the room, he opened the doors fully, spilling buttery sunshine, the smell of fresh, wet earth and dying winter, and the song of birds and pounding serf into the comfortable ticking nesting a sleeping Isabelle. Weightlessly, he lowered himself down next to her on the bed and watched her slumber in a cocoon of pillows and the soft, downy comforter. She slept on her stomach like a child, her arms cradling a pillow under her cheek and the blanket tangled around her small frame. Her velvety, brown hair was splayed across her pillows, her arms and face just peeking from under the silken stands. Her breath, slow and regular, wafted through her parted lips where a small, errant droplet of saliva glistened unnoticed by the sleeper. _So adorable_. Softly, newborn sunlight stole over her, capturing her in an illumination that almost reflected the radiance she carried within.

He could lay here for hours, content to watch her in repose as he'd done so many times before, but day had come and his sleeping beauty must rise. Softly, so as not to startle her, he brushed aside the silken strands of hair obscuring her face, his finger barely grazing the soft contour of her cheek. Isabelle sighed dreamily and began to stir. Stretching languidly, she pushed her arms and toes away from her and arched her back like a cat in a warm patch of sunlight. Daniel smiled at the soft, rebellious moans of waking which accompanied this activity, absorbed in Isabelle's morning ritual as she grudgingly left the shore of slumber to waken up.

Tentatively, she opened one drowsy eye and then the other, the lids still lazy from sleep, to peer into the warm brown eyes of the captain lying next to her. His nearness did not startle her; if she had her way, this is how she'd wake every morning. There he was, an appreciative smile ghosting his weathered features, coaxing a smile from her in return. She loved his expressive eyes: the way lines formed about them when he scowled, the pupils dark as flints with flecked with fire; or how they softened to a liquid caramel when he was at peace. She especially loved them as they were now, gazing at her with affection and protectiveness, his eyes earthy and solid. "Good morning, Daniel."

"Good morning, indeed," he responded. Realizing his hand still rested in the tangles of her hair, he smiled sheepishly and pulled it away before chiding teasingly, "yon world has wakened up afore ye, and ye've wasted away a good sunrise already."

Isabelle giggled and sat up, pushing the covers away from her. Suddenly wide awake, she rose from the bed and rushed to the open balcony doors, her small, bare feet protesting the coldness of the oak floors beneath them, to stand on the balcony and greet the new day for herself. She basked in the golden light of morning, her hair and the soft sheen of her proper gown radiant in dawn's lingering kiss. She stood contentedly, taking in the view that Daniel had enjoyed only minutes ago: the ocean resplendent in dancing light, the sandy shore aglow like refracted crystals, the earth blushing in shades of green. Spring had come, and with it the promise of new life and new beginnings. Daniel slipped quietly behind her and encircled her shoulders with his arms, pulling her close and resting his chin upon her shoulder. For several moments they stood without speaking, soaking in the beauty of the morning, a silent celebration of their shared hope for the future.

They had finished the book three weeks ago, and had spent the remaining days of winter producing two copies of the manuscript. Isabelle insisted they have the copies before entrusting it to a potential publisher. She'd worked feverishly for days on end, her only reward cramped muscles and ink-stained fingers. She'd engaged Daniel's assistance to reproduce several chapters, his progress slower than hers as his handwriting was less legible and his patience on a lower threshold. Frankly, the task grated on his nerves and his language grated on hers. In the end, he offered far more appreciated assistance by keeping her teacup filled and rubbing the soreness from her shoulders with his strong, gentle and un-stained fingers. The time together had produced a comfortable intimacy between them, one that neither had bothered to ponder too deeply.

The cries of famished gulls winging overhead reminded Isabelle that Martha must surely have breakfast under way, and she remembered that she needed to walk Lucy to school before stopping at the post office to post her correspondance. Turning her head under Daniel's chin, she craned her neck back to look up at the captain holding her in his sturdy arms. Her azure eyes smiled into his honey-brown orbs and he ventured to press his lips to her pale brow. Neither speculated on the physical closeness they were sharing, but simply enjoyed the rare moment. Chuckling, he released her from his embrace, and taking her ink stained fingers into his own, he escorted her back into the familiar bedroom.

"Daylights wastin' me dear, an' ye'd best be getting' dressed," he ordered with a roguish grin, and then, releasing her hand, he clicked his heals together and bowed exaggeratedly in her direction, before vanishing. Laughing, Isabelle scurried to her wardrobe and began the task of dressing for the day.

** XXXXX **

"Good morning, Miss," Martha greeted her as she led Lucy by the hand into the kitchen. The child took her place at the work table and began gobbling down a breakfast of eggs and toast with strawberry jam. Isabelle sliced two pieces of bread and retrieved a bit of ham from the icebox. Compacting the ham and bread into a sandwich and wrapping it in waxed paper, she quickly packed Lucy's lunch into a small tin, including the last orange from the pantry, an oatmeal cookie and a capped bottle filled with water, tying the box with a strap and setting it beside her small stack of books on the kitchen table.

"Thank you," she said appreciatively as Martha handed her a steaming cup of tea and a thick, white slice of buttered bread. She seated herself next to her daughter and took a big bite of bread, her stomach rumbling in appreciation. She and Martha had just begun composing a list of items she'd pick up for their evening meal when she was startled by a knock on the outside kitchen door. "Who could that be?" she wondered as she rose from her chair.

"No need, keep your seat," Martha said, skirting around her and answering the door herself.

Leroy, the dairy man, pulled off his hat with a "ma'am" and walked in with a large box hoisted on his shoulder. Setting the burden down on the work table opposite of the two diners, he began unpacking the contents while reading over a list in a clipped, gruff growl. "That'll be two dozen eggs, a pound of cheese, a pound of butter, two quarts of milk, a pint of sour cream," and smiling with uncharacteristic kindness at Lucy, he presented her with the last item, "and a half-pint of chocolate milk." Lucy squealed excitedly and hurried to open her lunch box to replace the water bottle with the precious container of chocolate milk, excited to experience the prestige of showing off such a treat among the local scholars.

Martha picked through the contents of the order before asking, "no whipping cream this week, Leroy?"

"No ma'am," he answered dryly. "Some of the 'ladies' came down with a touch of 'Spring Fever,' been mooning over the new bull that dopey farmer next door bought, so milk productions down a might. My wife, Astrid, decided to go with the sour cream this week and a few more rounds of butter. I'll have whipping cream next week."

"That's fine, Leroy," Martha offered. To Isabelle's dismay, the maid pulled her purse from her apron pocket and handed him several bills and coins, paying for the order before ushering him to and out of the door.

Stunned, Isabelle chided, "Martha, you needn't have paid Leroy, you should have billed the groceries to our account."

"None of that, now," Martha answered sternly. "I have money and I'll decide where to spend it." Seeing her flustered mistress preparing to protest, the maid quickly added, "You may as well know now that I've also settled the accounts at the mercantile and the fishmonger. Now, don't say a word, it's just until you can take over again."

Isabelle was mortified, ashamed that her funds had reached a point where her employee felt the need to intervene, but also touched that she had selflessly and quietly provided for them. "Oh, Martha, I don't know what to say!"

Martha looked at the younger woman fondly. It mattered not that Isabelle was a grown woman with a child of her own, Martha only saw the little girl she'd raised, and tenderness for the child her mistress had been surfaced, causing tears to prick at her eyes as she answered her. "There is nothing you need to say, Isabelle." Taking her hand in her own hand and patting it distractedly with the other, she continued. "You and Lucy are my only family. I'm not likely to stand by and let you loose everything while you wait for your book to be published." Releasing her hand, she wiped at her eyes and then marched smartly over to the sink and began washing the dishes, her back to the younger woman. "Now, we won't talk any more about this. I'll handle the bills until you get back on your feet, and nothing will change between us. Lucy's going to be late for school if you two don't get moving."

A single tear fell down Isabelle's smooth cheek and emotion kept her voice in check. Approaching her oldest and dearest friend, she crossed the kitchen and embraced Martha from behind, her arms looped around her waist, hugging her tightly for a few moments. "Thank you," she whispered. Then, turning, she directed Lucy to gather her books and lunch and they exited the kitchen.

Daniel, unseen in the shadows, watched the stout maid wash up the breakfast dishes, marveling at this woman who now occupied a permanent corner of his heart.

** XXXXX **

April was in its second week when Killian Jones pulled in to the tiny  harbor of  Storybrooke . He'd forgone staying in one of the rooms nestled above The Rabbit Hole, deciding a room at the Lucas Boarding House was a more respectable place from which to direct his attentions toward the lovely Isabelle Mills. He had arrived a day earlier than he'd anticipated, having found a favorable breeze to guide his clever boat: she didn't expect him until  noon the next day. Settling in early would give him a chance to scope out the area and take care of a few personal pursuits before devoting his time to the fair young widow. After securing his room, he'd taken time for a long, leisurely bath just after his mid-morning arrival, and then enjoyed a lunch of bread, roasted beef with potatoes, and vegetables, good despite having been left over from the previous evening. Widow Lucas promised to introduce him to the other residents in the evening, the prospect of which he smiled and thanked her for despite a complete disinterest in meeting them.

After  noon , Jones stepped out into the rich spring day for a leisurely stroll along  Moncton Avenue . He'd been in similar small towns all over  Europe ,  South America and the  United States , so it didn't take a great deal of effort to get his bearings. He walked a few blocks around the town center, recognizing the few stores he'd visited on his last trip. Before long, he was familiar with the lay of the town and the quaint people who lived there. The traveler in him soon grew bored with the mundane village, one much like any other anywhere he'd been, but the curious eye of the journalist began to see the hidden stories among the common folk. Here was the prolonged gaze between a middle aged man wearing a wedding ring and a pert, younger woman sweeping a storefront; there, the red nose and unsteady gate of a farmer telling of a few too many nips on the way to town. He nodded casually as he passed the town sheriff, a quiet man with sharp eyes and the coiled stillness of a forest predator. It was easy to distinguish between the upstanding citizens and the seedier elements, and Killian Jones was possessed of the ability to blend with either as it suited him.

The town was quite busy, its citizens venturing out to enjoy the warming spring after a cold and confining winter. Over head, a few gray clouds formed to the west, a promise of rain in a few days. For now, the pollen laden trees, greening grass and peaking flower buds produced enough irritants to cause his eyes to water, and his throat scratched and tickled, demanding some libation to soothe it. He smiled as he thought of his old friend . . . now what was her name? Ah, yes, Suzanne or something . . . from the Rabbit Hole. Her name may have slipped his memory, but not her delectable charms. Striding purposefully in the direction of the Rabbit Hole, he gave no more thought to the people around him, or to Cora Mills' naive daughter-in-law.

** XXXXX **

" _Daniel, you are so difficult sometimes_ ," Isabelle thought as she transferred a beautifully browned chicken onto a blue and white ceramic platter in the kitchen. To say he had been less than pleased to find out they were having a dinner guest would be putting the matter mildly. For a better part of the afternoon, she'd endured a tongue-lashing the likes of which had made rough sea-dogs cringe and hide. Outbursts of yelling, storming and cursing were followed by pouting scowls and peevish stares. Paying him no mind, she'd continued to putter about the house, sweeping, straightening, polishing and preparing, letting him rant or pout as he saw fit. During the quiet spells, she had patiently explained the importance of the service Killian Jones was rendering them, only to have him flare up again and again until her nerves were on edge and she'd become cross with him. He'd absented himself from her presence near mid-morning while she helped Martha prepare their luncheon. Having assumed she'd get some support for the upcoming visit from Martha, she was rather dismayed to discover her friend no more in favor of the journalist's visit than Daniel was. Finally, as the sun neared its zenith heralding  noon day, she sent Lucy upstairs to dress for dinner, herself and Martha retreating to their rooms to do the same. When she'd emerged in the kitchen some twenty minutes later, in a pretty, white silk blouse and blue linsey-woolsey skirt, Daniel was waiting and sulking.

She'd read Killian's letters to him as they'd come, keeping him abreast of the journalists efforts to interest a publisher in their work. He'd always brooded over the letters, declaring in not so many words that he did not trust the man. Killian's obvious flirtations hadn't escaped Isabelle's' attention; indeed, the chance to rub Daniel with the glib flattery liberally scribed on the presumptuous journalist's notes was simply too good to pass up. She was careful, though, not to reciprocate Jones' affectionate tone, keeping her own responses friendly and nothing more. After all, one walk home from the village hardly constituted a relationship. She was no longer a naïve seventeen year old girl who'd fallen for a pretty face and a handful of bright promises. She knew who she loved, blast it, even if he was too afraid to admit he loved her in return. Now, that very man stood nearby, an angry scowl on his face, his eyes narrowed and his arms crossed rigidly over his chest, arguing with the harried woman as she popped a pan of dinner rolls into the oven. Isabelle reminded him that Jones would lead them to a publisher for their now finished book. "You've entertained business associates, before," she pointed out.

"Of course, me dear," Daniel all but spat at her, "but in public, not in me house!"

" _Our_ house, Daniel," she reminded him. "And keep your voice down."

"Need I remind you, madam, no one can hear me?"

Rolling her eyes, Isabelle countered, "I can hear you." Picking up the platter, she passed from the kitchen to the dining table, then back again to transfer the various vegetables into serving bowls.

Daniel, on her heels as she worked, continued. "I donna like it one bit, that freebooter comin' up here to get a lay o' the land."

Intending to ask what he meant by that remark, Isabelle closed off her response as Martha entered the kitchen dressed in the stiff black maid's uniform and starched, white apron she'd worn at the Mills manor in  Boston . Sighing for the umpteenth time that day, the young woman addressed her housekeeper, "Martha, please, you don't have to serve our meal. I want you to sit down with our guest as a member of the family. We don't have to impress Mr. Jones."

Martha's response was a huff as she took a bowl of vegetables from Isabelle's' hands and whipped around to take it to the dining room. Stopping in the doorway between the two rooms, she said stiffly, "Oh, I mean to impress him, Miss. You're a _lady_ and will be treated as such by the likes of him. And don't look at me like that, young lady. You've read his letters out loud and think he means no harm, but _I_ know a flatterer when I hear one and he's up to no good!" With a saucy nod, she whisked the potatoes into the dining room.

Mouth open, Isabelle looked back at Daniel, a satisfied smirk on his face, an ' _I told you so'_ plainly etched on his smug features. At that moment Lucy, dressed in a smart calico print and her hair tied back with a blue ribbon, glumly slunk through the kitchen door to announce the arrival of their visitor. Having completed that task, she petulantly crossed the threshold and passed through the kitchen entrance to join Martha in the dining room, leaving Isabelle, gaping in astonishment, alone with the amused captain.

Snapping her mouth closed and drawing herself up to her full, petite height, she pointed her finger at him and ordered, "you _will_ behave yourself, Captain Gold," before exiting to the foyer to greet the less than welcomed Killian Jones into her home.

Daniel, now content that he had allies in Martha and Lucy, quietly faded into the shadows to see how the day would progress.

** XXXXX **

Killian hadn't quite known what to expect in dining with the lovely widow and her small family. Arriving a few minutes before the noon hour, he paused at the gate to take in the changes that had occurred since he'd walked Isabelle home several months before. A perfect little lawn was forming inside the fence, which itself formed a barrier between the house and the beachhead behind him. The shrubs had already begun to produce dark, waxy leaves, and he could see the flowerbeds beneath them with freshly turned soil waiting to play host to the dazzling blooms New Englanders were so fond of sporting in their gardens. Trees shivered in the light breeze sifting through them, nudging the nodules formed upon their swishy limbs. In a few days, the warm sun would awaken the little yard with life and color, leaving the winter but a hazy dream in light of the promise of a golden spring. The house itself, with its pink coat and green shutters and eaves, looked the perfect, feminine abode for its fair mistress.

He made his way to the front doors and rapped his knuckles on one of the stain glass panels. The door was opened a few moments later and he found himself staring at Isabelle's face in miniature. A little girl of seven or eight years greeted him somberly, looking for all the world like a child who'd been called in from play to entertain a doddering old uncle she barely knew. Greeting the child with a crooked grin, he introduced himself. "You must be Lucy," he said, offering his hand, "I'm Mr. Jones, a friend of your mother."

Several moments passed as she hesitantly assessed him before she placed her small hand in his and allowed him to shake it. Stepping inside, she stood back to let him pass her, but he stopped before the threshold and set a leather case on the floor just outside the door before entering. Lucy closed the door behind him and informed him that her mother was in the kitchen, and then left him standing in the foyer to go and announce his arrival. Taking in the pleasant aroma of the home-cooked meal being prepared in his honor, he let his eyes roam over the enclosed area. Light from outside filtered through the stained glass panels on the front doors, casting bright patterns of luminous colors into the shadowed foyer. To his left was a dark, rather masculine staircase leading to the upper floor and to his right a very inviting parlor. Peaking in, he briefly assessed the interests of the owner. On a table, photographs of an older couple: a woman with thick, dark hair surrounding an Isabelle shaped face, and a man with Isabelle shaped eyes and mouth. One lone silhouette of a child framed against a white background hung on an otherwise barren wall: so little art to adorn the inviting space. Smiling to himself, he mused that he may have found a way to ingratiate himself with the reticent child who'd admitted him earlier as well as the fetching mother herself.

"Killian, it's so good to see you!" exclaimed Isabelle's bright voice.

Turning to her, his breath fairly caught at seeing her beautiful face so near. He returned her greeting with an appreciative smile as she stepped forward offering her hand for him to shake. Accepting the delicate appendage, he eyes greedily drank in every feature. She had swept her rich, chestnut hair back from her face, tying it back with a blue ribbon, the length left hanging in a shining free-fall of loose waves down her back. Faint freckles revealed she'd recently been outdoors, obviously tending the flowerbeds in front of the house. The barest hint of a sun-kissed blush kissed her face, accentuating the color of her sea-tinted eyes. The sincerity of her smile reached those tantalizing orbs, drawing him in as she warmly welcomed him to her home. His smile was sincere as when he returned her greeting and presented her with a small bouquet of lilacs and roses he'd purchased from a vender in town.

Daniel stood a few feet from them, unseen for the moment. He'd set his eyes on this rouge only once before, from a distance, as he'd bid Isabelle farewell by the gate a few months past. He'd seen he was a man possessed of a goodly form and face, but up close he was as comely a fellow as ever he'd seen. Since then, he'd listened as the lady had read his letters, dripping with sentiments he'd not earned the right to bestow on her. He'd expected a dandy to come calling and was a bit dismayed to find the fellow to be a hardy man, lean and fit, one who'd be able to stand in a fight and make a good show of himself. He was muscled in a way only a working man would be and handsome to boot. He had a keen mind; that he already knew. Seeing him with Isabelle, a good head taller, a man of some means and with the kind of connections she needed, obviously smitten with her and, blast it all, _breathing_ , was almost more than he could take. He had every appearance of being the kind of man who could turn a woman's head, the kind of man who could share her interests and provide for her. He loathed him to the depths of his wretched little heart.

Dinner itself was a dubious affair in Killian's estimation. Isabelle ushered him into the dining room, a quaint and homey place that suited her. In the middle of the table were dried flowers wreathed around a hurricane lamp sporting a lit candle, lending a festive air to the occasion. A beautiful repast had been set before him: a golden-brown chicken, savory dressing and gravy, greens, carrots and navy beans. A rather stern woman a little older than himself, dressed in stiff, black and white maids uniform, was introduced to him as Martha. The good woman kept him under her scrutiny throughout the meal and served them with an uncomfortable formality that subtlety irritated Isabelle. Upon entering the dining room, his hostess seated him at the foot of the table, placing Lucy to his right and taking the seat to his immediate left.

Across from him, at the head of the table, was a lone place setting, complete with plate and glass, napkin and utensils and a chipped cup turned upside down on a saucer. Curious, he asked, "Is someone else joining us?"

Without looking up, Lucy answered, "That's Captain Gold's place."

Confused, he turned to Isabelle. "Captain Gold?"

Martha handed her a plate with steaming, tender slices of chicken. Isabelle passed the plate to Killian and explained, "A custom of ours." Glancing toward the head of the table, where Daniel now sat unseen to the stranger, she continued. "Captain Gold built this house and he's always our most welcomed dinner companion." She was rewarded with an appreciative nod from the unseen apparition.

"Ah," Killian answered, not understanding at all. He'd have to find out who this Captain Gold was. If he was a family friend, or a rival for Isabelle's affections, he'd need to figure out how to handle him.

The meal itself was quite good, despite the maid taking pleasure in setting things just out of his reach and the little girl's longsuffering silence. Isabelle inquired about his trip to Boston, showing genuine interest in his dealings there. It was several minutes into the conversation before he realized that she was quite adept at getting him to talk about himself. It was a bit unnerving. He was in the habit of retrieving useful information from others, not divulging details about himself. Along with her natural inquisitiveness was a gift of perception. Her quick mind garnered information as much as from what was left unsaid as from what he told her. He'd have to be careful. Thinking it time to take control of the conversation, he decided now was the time to give her the news he knew she'd been waiting to hear.

Laying his napkin atop his now empty plate, he offered Isabelle a sidelong glance. "I have a surprise for you, Isabelle."

Laying her own fork aside, Isabelle waited for him to continue. Wearing his most charming smile, he reached into the pocket inside his jacket and withdrew a long, white envelop and handed it to her, pleased to see the child's interest peaked by the gesture.

"Hopper and Sbarge Publishing, Boston," she read. She raised her eyes to his inquisitively over the top of the envelope, her mouth slightly opened and her hand trembling just a bit.

"Well, open it," he laughed gently.

Biting her bottom lip anxiously, Isabelle peeled back the flap of the envelope and slowly removed the enclosed letter, unfolded it and began reading aloud:

_ March 31, 1913 _

_ To: Miss Belle French From: A. Ferris Hopper, Publisher _

_ Greetings. _

_ Your name has come to my attention through the persuasive efforts of our mutual associate, Mr. Killian Jones. He informs me that you have a manuscript which you are seeking to have published. Upon his recommendation, I have set aside time to meet with you on Wednesday, March 16, at 10:00 a.m. to review your work at that time. I look forward to meeting you. _

_ Cordially, A. Ferris Hopper _

Somewhat breathlessly, Isabelle lowered the letter and turned her head toward the other end of the table where Daniel had been silently sitting throughout the meal. He grinned at her and presented her with a saucy salute, conceding to her the success of her little "business lunch." A radiant smile now bloomed on her features and she quickly turned her attention back to Jones. "He's going to see me!" she said, almost disbelieving the words printed before her. "Thank you." Glancing back down at the letter, she began to take inventory. The sixteenth was less than a week away. She had to come up with money for a ticket, and she had other arrangements to make.

"Don't thank me too soon, love," Jones played out. Reaching into another pocket, he retrieved a second envelop and handed it to her. He watched her open it with trembling fingers and remove two train tickets: one from Portland, Maine to Boston, and the other a return ticket. Tears pooled in Isabelle's eyes and she caught her breath, overcome by his kind gesture. Before she could politely refuse the tickets, as he knew she would, he hastily admonished her, "don't even think of turning these down. You need to go to Boston and you shall go." Then, winking, he added, "besides, I'll be on that train and you'll be good company."

Angrily, Daniel rose and dropped both fists like hammers upon the end of the table, the reverberations startling Isabelle and Killian as the plates jumped and settled and a glass of cold water fell over on its side, its contents splashing over and drenching a corner of the tablecloth. Lucy smiled into her napkin.

Jones gripped the arms of his chair, alert and ready for a repeat of the movement. "What was that?"

"Um . . . a tremor," Isabelle spat out hastily. "The house settles sometimes. Sand under the foundation." Isabelle shot the angry captain a warning glance. His face a mask of thunder, he crossed his arms over his chest and he scowled back at her from the other the end of the table.

Martha began bustling about the table and placed herself between Jones and Isabelle. Grabbing up flatware and napkin and stacking plates in a noisy fashion she announced, "Dessert will be a while yet. I've an apple crisp in the oven."

As if on cue, Lucy jumped up and skipped around Jones to the other side of the table. Taking her mother's hand, she pulled at her eagerly, asking, "Mama, can we go down to the beach?"

"Lucy, we have a guest."

Sated with his meal and needing a distraction, Killian pushed away from the table. "I agree, with Lucy. It's the perfect time to go to the beach." Rising, he assisted Isabelle to her feet and led her out of the dining room. Casting one long glance back toward the empty place setting at the head of the table, Lucy reluctantly followed.

** XXXXX **

The afternoon was fair and sunny with a slightly salty breeze lightly touching them as they strolled along the beach with Lucy in tow. Killian had retrieved his leather case from the porch to bring with him, and they'd been engaging in polite conversation as they walked.

Stopping about midway along the beach in front of the house, Killian slung the case off of his shoulder and, setting it down in the sand, began to unpack its contents. "And now," he announced, "a final surprise for the day."

"A camera?" Isabelle asked as he began erecting a tall, spindly tripod.

Lucy, having never seen such a marvel up close, closed in so her curious eyes could take in every detail. Killian smiled knowingly to himself. He always knew how to win the female heart, and he was quite pleased with the child's curiosity. He named each piece he pulled out of the case to her, his pride at having the latest equipment quite evident as he explained how the pieces fit together and discussed the quality of photography this particular camera produced with the seven year old as if she were a prodigy. By the time he'd completed the assembly, they were chatting like colleagues. "And now, Miss Lucy, would you be so kind as to stand beside the bench there?"

Incredulously, the child asked, "are you going to take my picture?"

"Of course," Killian returned with a laugh, "didn't I tell you I had a surprise for you?"

Smiling giddily, Lucy bounded over to the bench a few feet away to occupy herself with smoothing over her long hair and calico skirt. For the span of about half an hour, Isabelle stood by as Killian adjusted the height of the tripod, the angle of the camera, the various lenses he dropped into the scope and the changing of the photo plates. He had Lucy standing, sitting, twirling, looking directly into his lens or gazing out to sea. Finally, he handed her a piece of bread he'd stashed in his pocket after dinner and had her hold up her hand, a crumb in her palm, and shot several frames of a few greedy gulls hovering over her offering.

Finally, he called out to the little model, "alright, Lucy, that's enough for now." Throwing the rest of the bread on the ground for the gulls to fight over, she ran back to her mother and Jones, asking him when she'd be able to see the photographs. He knelt down so that he was on her eye level and answered, "you'll have to be patient. I'll take the plates to  Boston to get them developed, and I'll bring them back with me when your mother and I return next week." Lucy, now in a friendlier mood than before, ran up the beach in search of a memento from the sea with which to gift him.

"That was really very kind of you, Killian," Isabelle said softly.

"Not at all, love," he answered. "Besides, I'm not finished; your turn." Taking her by the hand, he escorted her to the bench and directed her to sit.

"Really, you don't have to take my portrait," Isabelle protested.

"Hush now," he admonished. "This is really for the publisher. They'll need a few photos of you for promotion once the book gets under way, so we'll just get a few shots to leave with old' Ferris to help him make his decision." Winking at her, he sauntered back to the camera to set up the shot.

For several minutes he directed Isabelle in various expressions: sad, pensive, surprised, alarmed, until she laughed at how much like a mime she knew she must look. "You're a terrible model, Isabelle," he admonished with amusement. _She really is so delightful_. "Now behave yourself so we can get a proper shot!" Having offered her some real direction, he positioned himself behind the tented camera to focus the lens upon her.

Looking through the shutter, Jones shifted the apparatus a few inches until he centered a rounded shot that focused on her face and hair, and he made adjustments until the focus was sharp enough to see the faint smattering of freckles across her delicate nose and cheeks. She had turned her gaze toward Lucy as she played on the beach, the warmth of her affection reflected in her eyes and her contented smile. He had just set up the shot when she turned her face towards him.

Daniel materialized before her in front of the camera, the movement of his appearance catching her attention, and she turned her eyes to him. In the span of a breath her countenance changed. Her breathing quickened and a slight blush bloomed across her features, her sea kissed eyes grew dreamy and her soft lips parted slightly, her love for him reflected in the aspect of her gaze. The click of the shutter was heard only marginally over the music of the surf and the cry of the gulls, and neither broke their gaze upon each other as Jones emerged from behind the camera.

Killian had seen the change in Isabelle's demeanor just as he pressed the button for the photograph. In all of his long associations with women throughout his travels, he'd never had a woman look at him like that before. The purity of unconditional love was one he'd never experienced for himself and in that moment, unsolicited, undeserved and unwanted, Isabelle had bared to him her heart and soul. Desire for her he already had, as she was beautiful and companionable, but now love for this woman took root and fairly exploded in his mercurial heart.

He was in so much trouble.


	14. Interlude:  Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this chapter is Ailein Duinn by Meav.

Isabelle leaned against the railing of the balcony staring pensively across the restless, black waters of the great ocean. There was little to see in the gloomy darkness. A high wind carried roiling rain clouds overhead, quickly overtaking the tiny patch of sky where hung a sliver of moon and a few, distant twinkle of stars. Nature was seeking shelter from the coming spring rain, the quiet disturbed only by a faint and distant echo of thunder, and the night absorbed the sounds of clanging bells and moaning foghorns that usually drifted in from the harbor. A chill wind gently nudged at the long braid she had plaited her hair into and she hugged into her shawl, warming her shoulders even as the breeze teased under the hem of her nightgown chilling her legs and bare feet. The day had been eventful in so many ways, the entirety of her future dangling like a rocking pendulum set in motion by one solitary letter offering her a few minutes of a publisher's time.

Killian left soon after taking the photographs on the beach. Upon entering the house, Martha had set upon her with admonitions concerning Jones' character and intentions, her friend uncharacteristically cross and outspoken. They'd quarreled about Isabelle accepting the train tickets, Martha demanding she return them and let her pay for the trip instead. Isabelle refused the offer, telling her she'd repay Jones for the tickets when the book was published. Lucy responded to their quarrel with peckish behavior of her own. Whining and uncooperative, she'd picked at her supper and spent the evening sulking.  Bath time had erupted into an argument when Lucy decided she didn't want her hair washed, their routine every Saturday night since she'd been a baby, and the child was still sullen when Isabelle put her to bed. Instead of saying her prayers that night, she simply flopped down into her pillow, pulled the covers over her head and mumbled goodnight to her astonished mother.

Exhausted emotionally and physically, Isabelle had bathed herself and retired to her room, forsaking her nightly ritual of tea in the kitchen, wanting solitude to put her thoughts in order. She little understood Martha's objections to her friendship with Killian. He was very kind to her, was helping her navigate the waters of the literary world, a place she was ill-equipped to traverse on her own. His assistance meant the difference between getting the book published sooner rather than later, and she needed it published _now_. As much as she loved and appreciated Martha's assistance, she couldn't let her friend and servant support them indefinitely. Neither was she blind to Jones' flirtations, but his attentions were harmless so long as she understood he was not serious about her and she kept her boundaries firmly in place. And then there was Lucy's behavior: she'd been cold toward Killian from the moment he'd entered the house, only warming up to him during the photo session. Afterwards, she'd sulked and pined away as if she had committed some great error over which she felt guilt. Isabelle had never had a cross day under the roof of this house, and now she needed to find a way to make amends.

The last she'd seen of Daniel was at the beach just seconds after Killian had taken her photograph. One moment she'd been watching Lucy frolic in the sand and the next she'd felt him standing there between her and Killian's camera. He just stood there, looking at her with love and longing, hope and happiness, and she'd seen everything she'd ever wanted reflected openly in his visage. He'd lingered there only a few moments, smiling at her as if she were his very breath. She had responded to him, drawn by the promise reflected in his expressive face. They held each other's gaze for a few heartbeats, and then he looked toward Lucy playing in the low tide, drawing her attention in that direction only for a blink of the eye:  when she looked back, he had vanished. She'd missed him immediately, a void that colored the rest of the day.

Closing her eyes, she sighed and concentrated on the crisp night air, willing it to settle the turmoil in her mind. She envisioned his face, every line and contour, remembered the feel of his lips, the ever shifting facets of his dark eyes. Missing him, wanting him near, she willed him to come to her and, releasing her breath, she felt Daniel's presence behind her at the telescope. As quiet as shadow, he came up behind her and settled his arms around her shoulders as he had a million moments ago that morning. Peace settled over her and a soft smile curved her lips. "Hello, Daniel."

Pressing a lingering kiss upon her hair, he returned teasingly, "Belle-of-mine." For long minutes they stood thus, entwined before he asked, "what are ye thinkin' about?"

Isabelle, her eyes still closed, lean into him. "I'm dreaming," she said whispered.

"About yer trip to  Boston ?"

"Mm mm. About the day before I met Gerald."

"And pray, what happened in yer dream, on the day 'afore ye met yer husband?"

"I met you."

Daniel stilled and drew her closer to him. "Aye," he played along, wishing for all the world it had been so. "We were at the docks in  Boston ."

Contented, Isabelle formed the images in her mind, committing them to memory, _making_ them memory. "Papa took me there to see the ships coming in."

Letting his mind drift back in time, he envisioned the scene she wove for him. "I'm standin' on the deck of the _Dagger_. The cargo was all unloaded an' the hands ha' put out for shore leave. I'm wonderin' how long it will take to get a new cargo loaded an' put back out to sea an' home to me lonely house." He rubbed his face against her hair, imagining how wonderful the velvety strands smelled. With barely a whisper against her ear he said silkily, "An' then I got distracted. Down on the loadin' dock was a fetchin' maid with chestnut braids wearin' a dress the color of a summer sky."

"Papa needs to check a cargo in from  France ."

" England . He had a shipment in from  England ."

"Yes, a load of furniture and dry goods." In her mind's eye she sees him standing there upon on the deck of a cargo vessel, his compact body leaning against the railing, his head bare and the wind lightly ruffling his sandy hair. "He asks to speak with the captain, and a man boards the ship right away to find him."

"Of course I'll meet with the merchant, an' the bonny lass beside him."

"You shook my papa's hand and then . . . "

Trailing his hand down Isabelle's arm, he took her delicate fingers in his own and brought it to his lips, "I kissed yer hand."

He could hear the smile in her voice. "You're very bold, sir."

"Aye. I was afraid I'd never get another chance."

Sighing, she confessed, "I was smitten. The wide world was in your eyes and your face was all I could see."

"An' in yers, me love, was the horizon, where the ocean meets the sky."

Isabelle held her breath a moment and sighed, for he had called her _his love_. "Papa was very surprised when I invited you to dinner."

"Aye, even more so that I came. He wondered what me intentions were toward his daughter."

"What were your intentions?"

"To drag you to the nearest church, give you me name an' hold you next to me heart forever."

Her heart near bursting, tears welled up and spilled through the closed lids to course down her cheeks. "I'll give you forever," she promised.

They stood locked in their embrace and their dream, still in the cool blanket of darkness as the clouds continued to gather, a breeze flirting at the hem of Isabelle's nightgown. Turning in Daniel's embrace, Isabelle looped her arms around his neck and pressed against him, her watery eyes raised lovingly to his. He could barely see her in the darkness, felt rather than saw the silent teardrops, and he pressed his lips in petal soft kisses on her cheeks to remove them. He felt her shift slightly as she pushed herself up on her cold, little bare feet to fit against him better, accepting his attentions in quiet rapture. He continued to press his lips to her face, her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, each one becoming more fevered and urgent, until he seized her mouth with his own. Their emotions already heightened by the sweet fantasy they'd indulged in only moments ago, they clung desperately to one another, the kiss fueled by need, desire and love.

As drops of rain began to dapple the balcony, Daniel reluctantly released her and they ducked through the door and into the bedroom. The warmth indoors struck Isabelle who, between her bare feet and damp nightgown, began to shiver. Grabbing a quilt off of the bed, Daniel wrapped her in it and steered her toward the fireplace. He secured a wicker chair from the breakfast set nearby and positioned it in front of the fire; then he gently seated her, tucking the ends of the quilt in around her small frame. Sitting on the hearth he placed her feet on his lap and tenderly began rubbing warmth back into them. They sat quietly for a few minutes as the heat of the fire and his gentle massaging lulled her into a hazy comfort, _"I'll give you forever"_ resting between them like a healing balm.

He had watched her with Jones and Jones with her. On the surface, Jones appeared to be a worldly man, not wealthy, but a man of some means. He was intelligent and perceptive; a gambler who knew how to assess the players at the table and play well the cards dealt him. He was a free spirit, the typical seaman who sailed into adventure, gave his vices free reign and then returned to hearth and home to adore a virtuous wife, with whom he remains in love if for no other reason than he's never with her long enough to get bored with her. He had placed Isabelle on a pedestal, fancying her as that wife, Daniel could see it in his eyes. Jones motive to assist his Belle had strings attached to it whether she recognized it or not. And she most certainly did not. She saw in him only a friend, one who shared her love of the written word and who had offered to help her navigate the unknown waters of the publishing world. She had no idea what wheels were turning in Jones' head regarding her: strange thought when he considered her otherwise flawless ability to see through others. _Perhaps it's the pretty face that throws her._

"Daniel?"

"Aye?"

"What do you think about me going to  Boston with Mr. Jones?"

He glanced up, his hands idly caressing the arch of her tiny foot. She was bathed in the glow of the firelight, her expression neutral as she waited for his answer. Sighing, he put her foot down on the floor and ran his hand through his hair before answering. "I donna like it, ye travelin' alone with a man ye barely know."

Pausing, he waited for her to plea her case, but she surprised him. "I don't like it either. I don't like owing him, but I can't let Martha continue to pay for everything." She reached out to him and he placed his right hand in hers. Holding it on her knee, she kneaded it softly between her fingers, tracing over his knuckles and palm. _He feels so solid, so here_. Corralling her thoughts, she continued, "I need to do this, to take advantage of the opportunity here. The book is good. There may be a few things an editor might want changed, but I have no doubt it will be published." Leaning forward, she stilled her hands and fixed him with conviction in her eyes. "I have to do this, Daniel."

"Aye, I know ye do," he conceded. "Ye'd be foolish to pass the opportunity up. But, Isabelle," he warned, "I canna go with ye."

Taking a deep breath and letting it go, she affirmed, "I know. I hate that you can't be here for this step. You're sure you can't leave the house?"

"Aye," he answered, frustration evident at his limitations. "The further I go, the less awareness I have."

She shook her head in understanding. She'd resisted Martha's assertion she not travel alone with Jones, hoping that she wouldn't actually _be_ alone with him. "Well," she said determinedly, "I'll have to take care of myself."

"Aye," he said grinning. "I ha' no doubt ye can do that!"

She rewarded him with a pretty, bright smile. "I love you, Daniel," passed her lips almost involuntarily. Daniel closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face as he schooled his emotions and maintained his silence. Isabelle's smile gradually waned at his failure to return the sentiment. _Stubborn man!_

Quietly, she turned the conversation back to the book, asking his advice regarding the rights, percentages and contracts the endeavor would involve. They spoke for another hour until fatigue from the day, the steady thud of the spring rain falling on the roof and the captains' quiet, familiar tones wove a spell of sleep over Isabelle. Daniel watched her in the dying embers of the fire, her eyes closed and her head resting on her shoulder, her breath falling slowly and steadily. _She is so beautiful, too beautiful to spend her life alone._ Rising, he leaned over the chair and lifted the petite woman. Cradling her in his arms, he slowly paced the room to the bed. Balancing her legs over his arm, he grabbed a handful of the comforter and pulled it back. Leaving her wrapped in the cozy, warm quilt, he laid her on the cold sheets and pulled the comforter up to her chin. After a moment, Isabelle, turning within the warm quilt, flipped over onto her stomach, grabbed her pillow into an embrace and moaned sleepily as she settled. 

Smiling, his heart full and his eyes alight with the feelings he tried to hide from her, Daniel whispered, "aye, an' I am yers forever."


	15. Reading Between the Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration this chapter is The Journey Home by Sarah Brightman.

Isabelle took another deep breath in an attempt to quell her queasy stomach. It was taking every ounce of control she possessed just to keep from jumping up from her chair to pace the outer office of Hopper and Sbarge Publishing. She'd been here scarcely half and hour, seated on a stiff Queen Anne chair with a lapful of her heavy manuscript wrapped in brown paper and twine. A mousy little man named  Hawthorne sat hunched behind a large desk making endless entries in an over-stuffed leather ledger, the incessant scratching of the quill against the paper working in tandem with the ticking clock to frazzle her over-excited nerves.

_ Scratchscratch-tic-scratchscratch-tic-scratchscratch-tic _

_ "Just a few more minutes," _ she thought. Sucking in a deep breath, and then slowly releasing it, she worried her bottom lip with her teeth and willed herself to remain calm. The room was rather chilly due to a brief spell of spring rain, but she felt overheated and faint. She'd barely slept the previous evening, far too anxious about meeting with Mr. Hopper to close her eyes yet alone fall asleep. Breakfast had been out of the question, although she did manage to drink a cup of tea before Killian arrived with the taxi to escort her to the publisher's office. Now, she wasn't' sure if she wished she'd had breakfast to shore her up, or was glad she hadn't so she couldn't become ill from the nerve-wrenching wait.

_ Scratchscratch-tic-scratchscratch-tic-scratchscratch-tic _

_ "Relax," _ she scolded herself. This was actually the quietest moment she'd had since Killian had given her Hopper's letter. The past several days had been a literal whirlwind of activity as Isabelle had prepared for the trip to  Boston . She and Daniel spent hours going over the manuscript, editing and making minor adjustments. When they'd become afraid to make any further changes, they sheathed the final draft in brown paper and tied it off with twine, laying it securely in the bottom of the leather traveling case she'd use for the trip. In the evenings they walked along the beach, speaking little, each wondering about the outcome of the meeting. The quarrel she had with Martha was forgiven the day after it began, with each of them coming to an agreement about how and when she'd pay Jones back for her tickets. A telegraph to Mr. Shelton in  Boston had turned an inquiry regarding a couple of nights lodging into an invitation to be the guest of himself and his wife. It pleased Martha that the attorney also volunteered to meet Isabelle at the train station: the look on Killian's face upon learning that fact had pleased the maid even more.

The day traveling to  Boston had been rather uneventful. She'd risen and dressed before dawn and then packed a few last minute items in her traveling case. Daniel appeared before she went down to breakfast to wish her a hasty farewell, and she was down the stairs, breakfasted and out to the rented carriage before the sun had fully risen. Killian greeted her with bright eyes and a crooked smile, and handed her case up to the driver. His smile faltered a bit when Martha and Lucy bounded out of the house with their traveling bonnets on and voiced their cheerful surprise to him and Isabelle that they were accompanying them to the train station in  Portland . Isabelle hid her amusement for Killian's benefit when Martha directed Lucy to sit next to her mother and took the place beside the journalist herself. Looking out of the window as the carriage lurched forward, Isabelle took one last look up at the balcony, smiling as she saw Daniel watching the carriage pull away.

They arrived in  Portland before  noon . As Jones stowed their belongings on the train, she bid an excited and somewhat tearful goodbye to Lucy and Martha, the latter pressing twenty crisp one-dollar bills into her hand before leaving her at the platform. Three hours and a dusty but pleasant train ride later, she bid her traveling companion a good afternoon and spent a weary and anxious night with the Sheltons. The following day Killian arrived in a rented taxi an hour before her appointment. He had been a perfect gentleman, offering a hand up into the carriage and then, very properly, taking the seat across from her. The ride across town didn't take long and they arrived with twenty minutes to spare. Finally, she found herself at the mercy of one Mr. A. Ferris Hopper, who would be judge, jury and executioner of the hope she carried in brown parcel wrappings.

_ Scratchscratch-tic-scratchscratch-tic-scratchscratch-tic _

She was exercising the last bit of her reserve when Killian stepped out of the publisher's office. Offering her a supportive wink along with his hand, he leaned in and said silkily, "he's ready to see you, love." Swallowing and taking a deep breath, Isabelle managed to rise, with Killian's assistance, without dropping the manuscript onto the polished floor. She clutched the precious pages to her breast like an infant and allowed Killian to guide her down the long hallway, his hand on her lower back. He directed her to an oak door with a wide, frosted glass panel and then rapped on it sharply three times. A male voice from inside bade them "come in'" and Isabelle looked back at him, pale and wide-eyed. Seized by a moment of tender protectiveness toward her, he offered her an encouraging smile and said, "You'll do fine, love. Go in and see the man."

Nodding once, Isabelle took a deep breath and straightened her spine determinately. She pushed the door open and stepped into the publisher's office, leaving Killian in the hallway. The room was big, but crowded, and it resembled a warehouse more than an office. A large desk was positioned near the center of the room. It was painted black, and the top surface was worn and dulled by the endless trail of hopeful works that had passed under the publisher's scrutiny over the years. Shelves of varying widths and heights stood against the walls. They were crowded with books, notebooks and legers, mismatched mailers, flyers and newspaper clippings, all set haphazardly in stacks meant to fill up the spaces. A long oak table was set between the desk and a large, grimy window overlooking the busy street outside. Upon it was piled a mountain of manuscripts, some wrapped in paper or enclosed in envelopes, others stacked atop one another, differentiated by setting the upper works askew to the bottom works. Isabelle recognized them for what they were: the hopes and dreams of other would be authors, all of them awaiting a nod of approval from the very busy man she herself sought favor from. She felt her prospects drop in the scant seconds she had taken all of this in.

Hopper appeared to be an unassuming man of average height with a ruddy complexion, curly, reddish hair and a congenial face with inquisitive, blue eyes. As Isabelle entered, he rose and walked around the desk, extending his hand and offering a friendly, soft spoken greeting. "Good morning, Mrs. Mills. I've been looking forward to meeting you." He stooped a bit to accommodate Isabelle's petite size and shook her hand warmly. "Please, sit down. May I offer you some tea?"

"No thank you," she replied nervously. Placing the manuscript in her lap, she wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt as Hopper resumed his seat behind the desk.

"Well, then," the publisher began, clasping his hands loosely together and resting his elbows on the desktop, "let's get started. Mr. Jones mentioned you wish to submit a book to be considered for publication." He granted her a tight, encouraging smile.

"Yes, I have," she replied. Taking a slow, deep breath she continued, "I am very grateful to you for taking the time to see me." Hesitating only a moment, she slid forward on the chair, lifted the manuscript off of her lap and placed it carefully on the edge of his desk.

"Of course, Mrs. Mills," he answered. Without moving, he permitted himself a moment to assess her. He usually didn't deal with women writers; his company produced only serious publications, not the frivolous fancies of romantic inclinations or sentimental poetry. Over the past several weeks, Jones had hounded him to take a look at the work of a young widow he'd become acquainted with, without even bothering to mention the content. Now, he understood his reasons: she was quite lovely, as he'd expected, but she was also poised and gracious, mature and educated, which he had not.

He had been one of Jones' many publishers for several years and had, on occasion, spent time in the journalist's company in one of the local gambling houses. Jones' taste in women usually leaned toward bar maids and bored, faithless wives: this beautiful creature was out of his league and well above his standards. He'd noted her refined speech and manners, the grace with which she carried herself, and the crystal blue eyes that gazed unflinchingly back into his. It was obvious why his old friend wanted to win her favor.

In the end, Jones had bargained with him for his time: "meet with the lady, tell her you'll look her book over and then send her a letter letting her down gently." For this exchange, the journalist would cancel his substantial gambling debt to him. It had been a lucrative offer all around. Jones would appear to have made a heroic effort on the part of the lady writer, and Hopper would be spared several weeks of hostility from his wife.

Thinking of what he stood to gain, it was easy for Hopper to smile warmly at the young woman and began the process of extricating her from his office. "We aren't usually in the habit of publishing women's books," he began, "but Mr. Jones was adamant that we consider your work." It couldn't hurt to boost Jones' image a bit while he was at it. "As you can see, we have many works to review, but we'll get to your book in good time. I do hope you enjoy your visit here in  Boston . Now, if you'll excuse me . . . "

A confused frown passed over Isabelle's face. She hadn't quite what to expect from the publisher during this initial meeting, but she did expect him to at least discuss the content of the book with her. He asked no questions and seemed a bit condescending even if he was polite. _Does he think he already knows what I've written?_ "What do you mean by 'women's books' Mr. Hopper?"

Smiling condescendingly, he explained, "poetry, Mrs. Mills, or cook books or romances and the like."

Smiling, Isabelle settled into her chair and began removing her gloves. _So, he thinks I'm frivolous. We'll have to see about that_. "My book is a biography, Mr. Hopper."

"Ah." _That_ surprised him. "Well, I'm afraid our readers aren't normally interested in the lives of missionaries or suffragettes, Mrs. Mills."

"I'm sure your readers would be very interested in a missionary or suffragette about whom _I_ wrote, sir," she replied confidently, locking her eyes on his and offering him a broad grin, "but we won't have to test them on that point. My book is about Daniel Gold, a very successful sea captain and business owner."

The publisher glanced at her skeptically. "Forgive me, madam, but what would you know about life at sea?"

Releasing a merry laugh, she answered, "oh, I know a great deal about the sea, sir! You're familiar with French Shipping, Incorporated here in  Boston ?"

"Of course," he replied, "they are one of the largest shipping companies around here. I met with the original owner once, a good man."

"My father."

He looked at her with renewed interest. "You don't say!"

"I do say!" Leaning forward, her hands resting on the arms of the chair, she continued. "My father was a seaman before he opened his company and he taught me to respect the men who make their living on the water."

"I'm sure he did, Mrs. Mills," he conceded. While the idea of a lady writer dealing with such a subject was rather intriguing, he hardly relished the idea of setting his eyes on sentimental rendition of another gothic hero fabricated in the fertile mind of a proper young woman. His wife had shelves of such tomes, and frequently disclosed the romantic exploits to him amidst tears and drabble.  He leaned forward on his elbows and steepled his fingers together. "I look forward to reading your little story. I'm sure it's very likable."

She hadn't expected the publisher's opposition or condescending attitude and, frankly, it made her angry. After all, _he_ had sent _her_ a letter inviting her to bring her manuscript in for review. Why was he trying to put her off now? She stood and leaned over the desk, placed her hands on either side of the open parcel at the edge of his desk, her eyes sharpened by emotion and her face flushed.  "Blast it, man," she said, glaring at the obstinate publisher, "just read it!"

Astonished, Hopper gaped at her like a fish on the beach. After a few moments he gasped, "Madam! Such language!"

She had his attention and, like a hound smelling blood, Isabelle seized upon the opportunity his surprise afforded her. "Now, Mr. Hopper, I have written a biography about a man who lived a life worth reading about, and I've brought it to you for your consideration. Why don't I take you up on that offer of tea and let's do a read through of the first chapter? After all, I am still scheduled for several more minutes of your time."

Hopper couldn't decide if he was repulsed or completely charmed by the tiny widow standing up to him and taking charge of the appointment. She remained poised over the desk, staring at him expectantly, a fire in her eyes as she challenged him. _I know what he sees in her,_ he thought, _and she's earned at least a chapter's read for this bold little display._ Deciding to indulge her, he grabbed a bell pull strung just behind the desk and rang  Hawthorne . Within moments, his scrawny assistant appeared, received his orders and ducked out to fetch tea.

Relieved, Isabelle offered him a sweet smile. "Let's get to it, shall we?" Relaxing her stance over the desk, she began removing the twine and brown wrapping from around the sheets of paper making up the chronicle of Daniel's life. Once the packet was opened, she turned, grabbed and then drug her chair up closer to the desk and settled in, thumbing through the top layer of papers until she'd secured the entire first chapter. As she settled back into the chair,  Hawthorne arrived bearing a tray laden with teapot and two cups. By the time he'd scurried out of the room, Isabelle was ready to begin.

_ "A storm was brewing: the signs were there in the clouds that gathered about the setting sun. Although half of the great orb had sunk below the watery horizon in the west, it's reflection on the sea lent it the appearance of grappling with the briny surface. Angry streaks of red and orange, bright scarlet and deep purple were refracted by the rolling, chaotic clouds and by the roiling, churning sea, like a cauldron of twisted forces being poured out upon the vast face of the Atlantic. Upon this growing maelstrom tossed a lone frigate, its crew of 78 souls frantically securing the vessel to ride out the coming storm. In the midst of this tempest, steady and still, stood the captain, barking orders to the seaman around him and daring the apocalypse to stop him."  _

Hopper continued to listen to Isabelle, her dulcet voice and rousing tale intoxicating his senses and drawing him in to the story she told. _If she fails at writing, she can become an orator._ As the minutes stretched, the publisher found himself lost in the flow and tone of the words of her tale, could almost see the man emerge from her pages, feel the fierce wind and behold the great sails billowing in its squall. He was pleased to find no brooding, gothic hero lurking in the pages, waiting to be delivered by a kind and spirited heroine: no, here was a man, sweaty, salty and substantial who issued orders with the expectancy they'd be obeyed, and who grappled with the elements about him. When she had finished with the chapter, he poured her more tea and bade her continue to the next. This was no cut-and-dry linear biography, but a veritable odyssey of a man's life, intriguing, honest and reflective. This petite woman before him was no ordinary writer, but a weaver of words, a storyteller in the truest sense. By the end of the first hour,  Hawthorne had interrupted twice to remind him of other appointments, which he prudently cancelled. By the end of the second hour, the timid assistant knocked on the door to inquire whether the lady was of a mind to have lunch with Mr. Jones.

The interruption came at a good time, as Isabelle's voice was becoming noticeably fatigued and Hopper suddenly became aware that he was, indeed, famished. How long had it been since he'd been so distracted by the written word? His mind had been stirred to old memories of his youth when he'd heard the siren call of the ocean life. Offering Isabelle a wistful smile, he posited, "you know, I once entertained the notion of going to sea myself, before I got married that is."

"Is that so, Mr. Hopper?"

"It is, Mrs. Mills," he admitted. "I can't say that I'm a romantic, but there is something about the ocean that calls to a man." Standing up behind his desk, his legs grateful to stretch, he moved around to the front and offered Isabelle a hand in rising from her own seat. "Now then," he said as he carefully returned the handwritten chapters to their place atop the manuscript, "I shall have to finish this on my own. Quite a remarkable tale, young woman."

"Thank you, Mr. Hopper," she beamed at him. "Thank you for allowing me so much of your time."

"Thank _you_ , Mrs. Mills," he returned. Leading her into the outer office, he shook her small hand and promised, "I'll get back to you as soon as possible, say in a week or two."

Isabelle released a grateful breath and allowed herself to relax for the first time since she'd entered the office a little over two hours ago. "I look forward to that, Mr. Hopper. You may contact my solicitor, Mr. Lawrence Shelton with any inquiries. And I'll be publishing under the name 'Belle French', my maiden name." She turned to Killian, who was waiting rather anxiously in the lobby, and smiled brightly, presenting him with an excited shrug and accepting his arm as he prepared to escort her from the office.

Jones opened the door for her and let her pass over the threshold, turning back to Hopper and winking conspiratorially before following her out. Hopper was puzzled over his old friend's relationship with this woman. Either he genuinely knew what a treasure she was and wanted to assist her in building a career, or he was ignorant of her work and only seeking a means to get close to her for some nefarious reason. His experience told him it may well be the latter.

** XXXXX **

Cora hated being kept waiting. In fact, she hated anything that threw her plans off sync in any way, and right now it seemed that fate itself had taken a hand in thwarting all of her best efforts. Gesturing to the waiter, she raised and then shook her empty wineglass at him, dismissing him to fetch a fresh bottle of the expensive chardonnay she favored.

She was seated in a booth to the back of the main floor of the exclusive restaurant she partially owned. Cloaked in shadows, the booth was shrouded in scarlet curtains that concealed her from prying eyes yet were transparent enough to allow her to view the brighter dining room with perfect clarity. Moreover, the location of this particular booth had the strategic advantage of overlooking a nearby table, now set for two, and allowed the occupant the ability to eavesdrop without detection. She had specified this feature in the design when she'd agreed to purchase controlling interest in the restaurant when it was being built years ago. Since then, she'd attended countless business meetings and clandestine trysts over the years without any of the players being aware of her presence. It had been a lucrative occupation in terms of investments and blackmail and, sometimes, revenge.

Impatiently, she withdrew a pocket watch from her girdle, flipped it open and looked at the time. Again. The gold casing of the watch featured an intricate relief of fine webbing surrounding a rose pattern. Subtly crafted into the rose was a black widow spider, the telltale hourglass etched into her abdomen, the creature hidden from scrutiny in the details of the rose. Cora smiled at the piece. She'd had it commissioned by a master watchmaker, with specific instructions that the spider remain hidden from casual viewing, and he'd done very well. The hidden predator was her inspiration, and like the silent assailant, she was an expert at spinning beguiling webs that, in her case, turned to gold. She relished moving in on her unsuspecting prey and striking at an unguarded moment; in this case, on her pretty little daughter-in-law, who was proving to be worthy, if not troublesome, game.

Isabelle was far more resourceful and resilient than she'd ever imagined. Of course, she'd always been too intelligent for her own good, but as a well-brought up girl, she'd usually fall into line for the sake of manners and familial peace. Since striking out on her own almost ten months ago, she'd deftly avoided the traps Cora had set for her. That she'd been able to by-step her mother-in-laws' devices was frustrating in and of itself, but to see her continuing to maintain herself after having her income cut off went beyond the pale. During that time, Cora had worked hard to lay the groundwork for furthering her little kingdom, and had needed Isabelle's' obvious assets to bring one of her more lucrative ventures to fruition.

Two years ago, she had determined that the best merger for the family's holdings would be with the wealthy shipping magnate, Leopold Blanchard. Acquiring Maurice French's company had gained them international shipping capabilities, but they needed a means of shipping their goods across their own country as well. Blanchard was a king in that market, and a merger with him would effectively give them the equivalence of circling the globe. A man in his early fifties, he and his beloved wife had become parents late in life and doted over their only daughter, Mary Margaret. Cora had acquainted herself with Blanchard, looking for some expoitable weakness that would lead him to provide her an in-road into his company, only to discover that the man only engaged his business interests with family members. The only way to his account lay in a merger of a matrimonial kind. Unfortunately, the man seemed to dote on his wife with the same devotion he showed his little daughter. After acquainting herself with Eva Blanchard, she learned that their marriage was indeed as loving as it appeared, so her initial plan to have Regina seduce him into an affair wouldn't work. She did learn, however, that Eva Blanchard had a weakness for sherry, and took it upon herself to gift the lady with several bottles from her own cellar: that those bottles had been laced with _Ricin_ went unnoticed, as Blanchard himself never imbibed, and disposed of them after his good wife's unfortunate and unexpected "heart attack." Cora was able to sympathize with Blanchard as her poor Henry had succumbed the same exact way, and began encouraging him to remarry and provide his impressionable young daughter with a new mother.

She had originally planned to maneuver a match between the grief stricken widower and  Regina , but Gerald's untimely death offered her a better alternative in Isabelle. Her daughter-in-laws' beauty and innocence would be familiar to the widower, and her experience as a mother offered the added bonus of providing young Miss Blanchard with a step-sister.  The young widow would undoubtedly be more appealing to the gentleman than her more worldly and ambitious daughter. She had spent time grooming Blanchard, endearing herself to Mary Margaret, planting in her the seeds of desire for a new mother. She used Isabelle's relocation to her advantage, citing her intelligence and pioneering spirit as essentials to rearing a young lady in their modern world, cultivating a certain desirable portrait of the Mills most valuable asset. When Blanchard had put his mourning behind him and was ready to meet the vaunted beauty, she'd been set back on her heels by Isabelle's stubborn independence and some malevolent creature in her new home. Cora shivered at remembering her unnatural removal from that damnable house and fortified herself by draining the remainder of her wine.

It was about that time that she started losing her footing where her mechanisms were concerned. Blanchard had finally taken her advice to find a suitable wife, but Isabelle was firmly entrenched in her little pink house with no signs of budging in the right direction. She had returned to her original plan of introducing  Regina to the shipping king, but her daughter had finally located her spine and had absconded with some stable boy from  Oklahoma . She'd been furious upon finding  Regina 's note explaining her defection and her hope that Cora would forgive her and accept her choice. Forgive her? After smashing every dish in the dining room, she'd entertained ripping the clod's heart out and feeding it to  Regina on a silver platter. She had the money and the connections to put Dan Olster out of the way and bring her wayward daughter back under her influence: she certainly had the inclination. In the end, it was politics that had proved his saving grace. Olster had aspirations for the senate and the right connections to place him high in the government within a few years, and he may yet prove useful to her in some future capacity. This had been his salvation, but it still left her with a merger to arrange and no asset to make it happen. It was then that she'd turned to Jones.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Jones finally made his way into the dining room, escorting Isabelle to the table she'd reserved for them. _It's about time!_   He seated her daughter-in-law facing her, as she'd directed, and then took his place with his back to her. From her vantage point, she'd hope to gauge Isabelle's reaction to the publisher's rejection. _A book . . . honestly?_ She'd laughed when Jones advised her of the girl's misplaced ambition of publishing a book. She'd known Isabelle liked to write fantasy stories for Lucy's amusement, but entertaining the notion of her silly fairytales to earn her keep was laughable. Jones had assured her that his publisher friend would reject her little tome forthright, divesting her of her one hope to maintain her independence. How she'd managed to stay afloat this long perplexed her. No doubt her ever faithful maid was helping out. Well, that would be in her favor, too; they would both come crawling back to her with nothing.

Rendering Isabelle penniless was only part of her plan, though: she needed her defeated and pliable as well, and that was where Jones excelled. His gaining and then rejecting her affections would be the push to drive her home and steer her in the useful direction of a solid and profitable marriage with the widower. She had faith in Jones abilities. He'd proven himself time and time again in many of her schemes. He was handsome, ruthless, and utterly without any discernible morals. A gambler, both in life and sport, he was always in debt to someone, and always accepted her money without reservation. He'd gladly rake Isabelle over the coals and walk away without a backward glance. His job was to court her, appear to support her and arrange for her to be left in shambles. He was to play with her heart, leave her broken and penniless and ready to acquiesce to Cora's terms. Her only stipulation was that he not actually ruin the girl by bedding her. She was, after all, a Mills.

Isabelle shifted excitedly on her chair, completely unable to contain the smile lighting her face. "Killian, I can't thank you enough for introducing me to Mr. Hopper. This morning was incredible."

Jones offered her a crooked grin across the table. "My pleasure, love. You had a good time, then?"

"Oh, the best time!" Isabelle reached out and took his hand, squeezing it affectionately. "He liked it, Killian. He liked my book."

Joyful tears welled up in her eyes and held his, drawing him in to her happiness. He tightened his hand around hers and swallowed. She was genuinely convinced Hopper had liked her story, and there must be some truth to it. The publisher had given her two hours of his time. _Two hours!_ He'd never given Killian that kind of time, and he had published numerous articles. Hopper was a happily married man who worshiped his wife, so he had no thoughts that the publisher was trying to flatter her. What could he have found so intriguing about some romance or tips on gardening?

He was also keenly aware of their audience nearby and knew that he wasn't the only one who was curious. He released her hand as the waiter set two glasses of water on the table and asked if they desired anything from the bar. Grinning, Killian ordered, "a bottle of your best wine, please." It was just as well that Cora was picking up the tab on this one. "And two steaks, mine rare and the ladys...?"

"Medium well, please."

"Yes, and we'll have the house salad as well." The waiter bowed slightly and left them.

Killian could literally feel Cora's eyes boring into the back of his head. It made his skin crawl. Despite their very profitable past, he was growing increasingly more uncomfortable with the partnership they had. Since he'd met Isabelle, what conscience he had left had begun to waken and a kernel of guilt had taken root in him. He found himself loathe to scheme against the pretty widow who'd given him genuine friendship and that bright smile that she was showing him now. "So, what did Hopper like about your book?"

"I read two chapters to him, and he liked all of it!" She couldn't stop smiling.

"Really?" Killian asked, trying his best not to appear incredulous. "Old Ferris liked your book? It most definitely was not a romance novel then."

The waiter arrived with the wine and poured them each a glass. Isabelle took a sip and hummed appreciatively. "No, it isn't a romance, it's a biography."

"Oh? Of who?"

"Captain Daniel Gold."

Killian was puzzled. "Have I heard that name before?"

Giddily, Isabelle leaned forward and answered, "He's the man who built my house!"

"You wrote the biography of a carpenter," he asked, one eyebrow raised, "and Hopper had you read two chapters to him?"

She shook her head, giggling, "Not a carpenter, a captain. He's a very successful sea captain and businessman. He practically built Storybrooke."

Recognition began twisting in Killian's gut. "This was the man you expected to join us for dinner," Jones directed at her.

"Well, yes," she answered, a wistful smile playing about her lips, "in a way."

"And what is it about him that was interesting enough to entertain a publisher for two hours?"

"Much!" Isabelle exclaimed. Over steaks and wine, she discussed Daniel's life, his ventures at sea and his business endeavors that had more than doubled the economy of a small coastal village. Admiration for this Captain Gold was evident in her voice, her face flushed with emotion and her eyes misted over dreamily.

Jealousy began twisting inside of Jones. He had no doubt that this _Captain Gold_ held a place in the beauty's affections. It picked his pride that she spoke so fondly of this other man, and it angered him to think of an apparent rival spending countless hours with her, spinning his story in a way that had endeared him to her and had won her devotion. It also disturbed him that he was beginning to crave her devotion for himself. This was new territory to him.

He knew the dance of attraction and indulgence well, and he had never fallen to a woman's wiles. It occurred to him that he was drawn to Isabelle for the very reason that she wasn't trying to draw _him_ at all. She had freely given him her friendship with no expectations other than he gave his in return. It was stimulating and agitating all at the same time. Used to the corruptible wives of well-placed politicians and businessmen, he felt his efforts obstructed by her lack of guile and her openness. He had no experience in playing the game of seduction with a woman who simply wasn't playing. Masking his frustration, he smiled and listened politely as Isabelle spoke, charmingly animated in her excitement, and he understood he had a rival for her affections. "This captain of yours sounds almost too good to be true; I'd like to meet him."

In a moment, her countenance changed. She glanced away from him, her face pale, and she took a long drink. Putting the glass down, she looked up sheepishly, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip. Shrugging her shoulders and gracing him with a sad smile, she uttered the hardest words she'd ever spoken, "I'm sorry, Killian. The captain passed away four years ago."

Jones was confused. "I don't understand; you speak of him as if you know him personally."

"Do I?" she whispered. Her breath quickened as her lips parted slightly and a slight flush danced over her cheeks. She raised soft eyes to him and answered, "I guess I've spent so much time reading his journals and talking to people who knew him that I feel that I do know him."

Relieved, Jones raised his glass and saluted, "To the captain, then: may he rest in peace."

Isabelle's heart was seized with cold and a feeling of dread settled over her. She didn't like to think of Daniel in those terms, refused to acknowledge the truth. "Well, I think we should be going. I'm really rather tired now that all of the excitement has worn off."

Cora watched as Jones signed for the check and escorted her estranged daughter-in-law from the restaurant. Chagrined that the chit continued to thwart her plans and efforts, she silently assessed the scene that had played out before her. Isabelle was confident that her little story would be published, maybe bringing her enough money to stay solvent for quite some time. Cora didn't know Jones' publisher friend and, honestly, she wasn't sure that she could manage to pull any strings in that area. There were two things she was certain about: first, she would need to act fast if she had any hope of bringing her plans to fruition; and second, that Isabelle was in love with a dead man.

** XXXXX **

The train pulled out of  Boston before dawn. Caroline Shelton had said her goodbyes at the house, just before handing Isabelle a basket filled with boiled eggs, muffins, fruit and two bottles of hot tea. The older woman had enjoyed her company during the brief visit and had already developed a soft place for her in her heart. Isabelle promised to write her and gave her a quick hug before getting into the carriage with Mr. Shelton for the brief drive to the station. Killian was waiting for her there, and they soon found themselves settled in their assigned seats. By the time the train pulled out, they had made quite a dent in the breakfast she'd brought along, the tea helping them to fight off the chill of the cool March morning.

For an hour, Isabelle divided her attention between the world outside of the window and their companions seated across from them. Two middle-aged brothers, both well dressed and jovial businessmen, soon learned of Killian's occupation and engaged him in a long and spirited discussion of his travels and the skirmishes he had chronicled. Days of excitement and nights of fitful sleep soon pressed upon her as she gazed out of the window, wishing the miles away with her longing to be home again. She couldn't wait to tell Daniel every detail of her appointment, of the reception the story had received and of how much closer they were to achieving their goal. She wanted to see hope and joy in the broad, toothy smile that put fine crinkles around his eyes while erasing the years from his face. She longed to walk along the beach with him, watching Lucy play along the skittish tide.

Having lost herself in daydreams, the swaggering motion of the train soon lulled her to into a daze. Heavy lids closed over eyes that had already shut out the world in favor of inward visions. Her head rocked to and fro seeking support for her slumber, and she unknowingly leaned upon Killians' shoulder. Surprised, but pleased, he stopped speaking mid-sentence to look down on the soft brown curls now spilling down his arm and upper chest. Her long, thick lashes fanned out over her freckled cheeks, her lips parted for the soft, slow breaths of deep sleep. He directed a crooked smile across the way to his companions, both of whom chuckled good-naturedly at the sweet lady's unknowing display. Killian quietly slipped his arm around her shoulders, offering her the comfort and support she sought in slumber, and Isabelle nestled against him contentedly.

His discourse pleasantly interrupted, Jones' reflections turned toward the beauty leaning against him unaware. How trusting she was, this fair mouse tucked up under the cat's chin. She sighed and shifted slightly, snuggling closer into him, and he felt his chest clinch. He had never known anyone like her: as delicate as a rose petal and as resilient as a mount of granite. His heart and his head were in a muddle over her. He was a rogue through and through, selfish, cruel and willing to sell himself to the highest bidder. He was capable of romancing her and then rending her heart in two and walking away. He had done as much over and over again and had never troubled himself about the ruin he'd left in his plunders. No woman had ever before found a place in his heart, and he couldn't fathom how it could happen now.

Looking at her soft face pressed against him, so innocent and trusting, he felt the stirrings of protectiveness. She was the most honest person he'd ever met, clever and generous and kind. She didn't deserve the twisted plots that were being woven against her. How tempting it was to think that he could walk away from Cora's schemes and make a real life with Isabelle. She had her little house by the ocean, and could keep it without her mother-in-law interfering. He could continue living as he had before, but now have a safe harbor to return to when his wanderings subsided on occasion. In time, he could win Lucy's affections, perhaps even the over-protective maid _. Probably not,_ he mused, _she really hates me!_ On the other hand, Cora Mills paid very well and she had more dirt on him than he even knew existed: information she wouldn't hesitate to use against him if he thwarted her efforts. Besides, once Isabelle discovered his past and his duplicity, she'd cast him out of her life and never look back. A tendril of hair had fallen across her face, tickling her nose and begging to be touched. He gently tucked the errant curl behind her ear, letting his fingers linger in the silken strands crowning her angelic face. He decided to simply enjoy the moment, imprinting it in his memory to be savored at a later time when the cold rains poured outside and the rum was not enough to keep the sadness away.

When Isabelle woke, she was leaning against the window pane, the cool glass bumping her forehead in rhythm with the swaggering train. She stretched before she had fully wakened, and then shyly presented Killian with a self-depreciating smile. "I'm sorry, I think I've been bad company."

"Not at all, love," he assured her. "I've been catching up with Mr. Twain." He held up a hard-back copy of _The Gilded Age_. "Besides, you looked like you needed it."

"Thank you," she said sarcastically, running her hands over her hair to smooth it out. She wished she had a mirror so she could see how much damage her little nap had caused.

"No need to fuss, you look absolutely wonderful," he said sincerely. Her cheeks were pink from her sleep, her hair a bit frazzled about her face and her eyelids still drowsy over sapphire blue eyes. Isabelle's 'just wakened' look was one he'd willingly look at every day. Closing his book and tucking it inside of his camera case, he continued casually. "Your timing is good. We'll be in  Portland in a few minutes.

Looking out of the window, Isabelle saw the first few buildings occupying the outskirts of the town. She took a few moments to pin her hat to her hair and swept her hands over the fabric of her clothes to smooth the wrinkles out of her skirt and blouse. Within another half-hour, they were stepping off of the train and onto the platform of the station.

She was glad to have a break from the constant motion of the locomotive, and took a deep breath of the fresh spring air surrounding her. Killian insisted on carrying both of their travel cases, so she picked up his camera case and a rectangular parcel wrapped in paper that he had picked up in  Boston . He led her toward the east end of the station platform to secure them a ride back to Storybrooke.

"Mrs. Mills," called out a gruff voice. "Over here."

Turning about, she spotted her neighbor pushing his way through the wave of travelers as he strode toward her. "Hello, Leroy. What brings you here?"

The milkman stopped in front of her, offering her a grimace that passed for a smile. "My wife, Astrid, sent me to pick up a dresser she ordered for the new baby. I've got it loaded in the wagon. "

"A friend of yours, Isabelle?" Killian interrupted, drawing up close beside her, offering the stocky man a challenging lift of his brow and a steady stare.

Laughing, Isabelle quickly introduced them. "Killian Jones, this is Leroy Axe, our neighbor and dairy man."

The two men shook hands, each eyeing the other without blinking. "Pleased to meet you," Killian said smoothly.

"Sure, mister," Leroy responded. Dropping the writer's hand, he turned back to Isabelle. "Miss Potts said you'd be at the train station today and asked me to bring you home."

The dazzling smile from Isabelle contrasted Killian's scowl as she thanked Leroy and asked if he was sure it would be no trouble. "No, no trouble. The dresser is loaded, so we can get stared."

Reluctantly, Killian packed their belongings into the back of the wagon with a satisfying thud as Leroy assisted Isabelle to the bench seat behind him. Her light chatter regarding Leroy's wife and children contrasted his chagrin at losing the opportunity to have Isabelle's undivided attention for the ride home. Putting his best face on, he hoisted himself up on the seat beside Isabelle.

Leroy disengaged the brake and clacked the horses on their backs with the worn, leather reigns he held, and they started down the long, bumpy road leading homeward. The ride wasn't unpleasant. Martha had sent along a basket of sandwiches and lemonade, which they made good use of. Killian watched with interest as Isabelle chatted with Leroy, amazed at her ability to draw out the reticent milk man. She gained his interest first by inquiring about his wife and children, the baby they were expecting and the mundane events that was life on a dairy farm. She then asked his opinions of the local politicians, most of whom their grizzled companion disliked on any number of issues. As he continued listening, he discovered their gruff driver was also an admirer of Twain's work, and had much to say about the book he himself was now reading. Before long, he and Leroy were embroiled in a very satisfying discussion of the author's works in general.

They arrived in Stroybrooke in the late afternoon. Leroy's farm lay just two miles beyond Isabelle's house, so he continued through town, down  Moncton Avenue and up the familiar road toward the pink Victorian with its white picket fence. Weary and bone-tired as she was, Isabelle felt a familiar flutter of excitement as she neared her home. Lucy would already be back from school and she'd be seated in the kitchen with a glass of milk and some cookies, her spelling words waiting to be written out. Martha would be folding a basket of laundry nearby as Lucy filled her in about her day, both waiting anxiously for her return. Daniel would be waiting. He'd stay out of sight until they could be alone together later, but he'd be nearby just the same. She wished she could have stolen home in the late hours of the night so she could see him first, but she'd just have to be patient.

The horses brought them up to the turn in the road where the house became visible. A couple of days absence had brought new color to the yard as dozens of blooms of lavender, gold, blue and red nodded their new-born heads in the faint breeze. Trees surrounding the property were heavier with lush leaves and the grass had taken on a shaggy appearance as the blades stretched tall and grew upwards. The familiar pounding of the restless surf and cries of gulls welcomed her home.

Pulling up to the gate, Leroy halted the horses and climbed down from his seat. He turned to lend Isabelle a hand, but Killian deftly jumped to the ground and, reaching for Isabelle, placed his hands around her tiny waist to lift her up. He pulled her down to him, almost in an embrace, and placed her solidly on the ground next to him. Grinning into her eyes, he winked and turned to help retrieve their traveling cases from the back of the wagon. Once they'd convinced Leroy that they could carry on from there, Isabelle thanked him and bid him goodbye with a promise to visit Astrid soon.

Killian carried her bags up the oak steps and onto the porch of the house. Setting Isabelle's' case down, he drew out the wrapped package he'd carried up under his arm. Handing it to her, he said softly, "this is for you. I had it done while we were in  Boston ."

Her mouth open in surprise, she said, "you didn't have to get me anything. You've done so much for me already."

Genuinely pleased that he was giving her a gift, he smiled and answered, "It's something I wanted you to have. Go ahead, open it."

Hesitating only a moment, she worked off the twining and ripped open the paper. Inside was a framed photograph of her, the one he'd taken on the beach. It was a very intimate copy of her face: the subtle freckles, her eyes lit with the fires of humor, contentment and love. She recognized the moment reflected here perfectly: it was the moment Daniel had appeared before her on the beach, a moment when he'd caught her unaware and her love for him had radiated from her. Killian had no idea how precious a gift he'd given her. She was humbled by the beauty of the gift and by his generosity to her. "Thank you," she whispered sincerely. "It's absolutely wonderful."

"Not as wonderful as its subject," he said softly, stepping closer and closing the distance between them. Taking the frame from her hand, he gently set it aside next to the railing, his eyes never leaving hers nor blinking. Overtaken by his new found feelings for her, he drew her into an embrace and gently pressed his lips to hers. Surprised, Isabelle's breath caught in her throat as Killian tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer, and moved his lips on hers, deepening the kiss, hoping she'd understand his intentions. Isabelle was confused by this unexpected ardor from her friend. She found herself responding to him as he tasted her lips. It lasted only a few moments before he released her and gently backed away.

His chest rose and fell with quick breaths and his eyes, the color of the sea at twilight, spoke of his affection for her. "I'll be on my boat for a few days," he said huskily. He turned abruptly and quickly tread down the steps to the pathway leading to the gate. Without looking back, he made his way through the gate, grabbed up his bags and headed in the direction of the harbor.

Clutching her hands about her stomach, she watched him as he disappeared behind the trees by the roadway, wondering what mess she'd gotten herself into. Heaving a sigh, she stooped and picked up the handles on her traveling case and went inside to her family.

Daniel stood, unseen, in the lengthening shadows of the porch, his jaw clenched and his fists balled up as he held a wide stance. He could see Isabelle's confusion in the exchange he'd just witnessed, and he understood better than she just why Jones had expressed himself in the way he had. He understood, but had no idea what to do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who take the time to read, I appreciate it more than you know. A very special thank you to OneMagician for acting as beta for me, and for the beautiful songs she sent me.


	16. Proposals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for this chapter: I Won't Give Up as sung by Peter Hollens

April came with clement weather and bouts of gentle, spring rain. Bursts of colorful wild flowers bloomed in profusion along the wooded boundaries of the little hamlet, while their more cultivated cousins lined fences and window boxes. Trees and shrubbery were heavy laden with lush new shoots and leaves, all reaching joyously toward fair skies and gentle breezes. Gray ocean waters of winter turned to shades of turquoise and emerald green, reflective of the radiant sunrays on its surface, the tranquil waters welcoming the fishermen who made their living from its depths. The forest itself teemed with new life as birds paired and nested, tended to small clutches of eggs and feasted on a calliope of insects and larvae now making their own ravenous debuts. Fawns with spotted flanks were seen by those who lived near the outskirts of the town, along with the kits and cubs of other denizens of the wood. New calves, colts and kids had been born on the outlying farms, stiff legged and skittish as they shadowed their mothers behind fences of wood and wire, and barnyards were rendered riotous with the squeals and squawks of new born piglets and fussy hens with fuzzy chicks.

Storybrooke was awakening from the lethargy of cold, long days,freshened by the gentle rains nourishing rich, velvety carpets of green grass. Life everywhere seemed ignited by the energetic change in climate. Stores kept longer hours and the wharf came alive as the cannery swung into full production. Fishing boats scuttled across the harbor like flocks of geese, each catch brought in with jovial bustling of weighing, sorting, cleaning and delivery to the cannery or the local markets. Citizens young and old emerged from their winter nests with their shirtsleeves rolled up, ready to stretch sluggish limbs and return to the towns' previous level of activities both civil and social. Congenial visits, news from abroad, the latest styles and exciting events occupied the daily lives of the villagers, along with an impatience to enjoy all that they'd missed and longed for throughout the winter months.

Jones had visited with Isabelle daily for the first two weeks after their return. He usually came by mid-morning, bringing with him a box of baked goods or fruit, admitting it was nothing more than a ploy to be invited in to take tea with her. On other days, he'd walk her home from the Post Office where she'd go after picking Lucy up from school and then spend an hour in conversation on the front porch. Isabelle welcomed the distraction, always hoping he'd heard from his friend, and hiding her disappointment when he hadn't. During these visits, she would sometimes sense Daniel's presence, unseen in the shadows. She knew he didn't like Jones, distrusted him, but he kept his opinions and his displeasure to himself.

Killian made no further attempts to kiss her, or even hold her hand. Although he remained flirtatious and deferential to her, he also appeared somewhat hesitant and subdued, as if engaged in some inner debate regarding their association. Isabelle decided he had no further interest in her outside of the friendship they'd developed and said nothing of what had passed between them on her porch.

Days passed, hope held and spring claimed the whole of  Maine , but no word came from Hopper.

On the third week, Killian sailed back to  Boston on business.

Isabelle now owed Martha a great deal of money. Her faithful maid had been primarily supporting the three of them for several months. They'd cut corners where they could, eating simple fare and conserving candles and gaslight, but their credit was running short and the bills that were due were quickly depleting their combined funds. Anxiously, she'd taken to pacing the floors, the light-footed clack of her boots tracing a familiar pattern of steps in her bedroom, along the hallways and on the front porch. A path had been worn from the house to the beach where the tide washed away evidence of her outdoor roving from the shoreline.

Daniel waited. He'd grown quieter, more introspective when they were together. Isabelle attributed his coolness to his own concerns at the length of time it was taking to hear back on the matter of the book. They found themselves hard pressed to discuss anything outside of the tome, of its reception or rejection. They pondered her making another trip to  Boston to see other publishers, discussing how she'd finance such an endeavor on what little resources were left. Both believed the story itself to be worthy of publication, but conceded they may have to approach many different publishers before finding one willing to take a risk on an untried author.

In her growing worry, Isabelle tried to formulate new ideas for supporting her family. Her half-hearted attempt to bring up the matter of taking in borders again was met with a cold eye and disapproving scowl, but both knew they may have to resort to the plan rather than risk losing the house altogether. The more this topic was broached, the more Daniel withdrew. He hated not being able to support them by the sweat of his brow and the work of his hands. Were he living, none of their predicament would even exist, and it pained him to his core to be impotent to take care of Belle and the wee lass he'd grown to love. He was ashamed that she was forced to shoulder the responsibility of supporting the little family, and his shame kept him to himself. So it was that Isabelle was left more often to her own devices, loosing herself in housework and pointless pacing.

One month to the day of her appointment, Isabelle found herself outside of the familiar Storybrooke Savings and Loan. She paused for a moment, silently reflecting on the meeting at hand. Finding her resolve, she opened the door and stepped inside with as much grace as she could muster. Horace Cogsworth looked up as the tiny bell on the door announced her presence. Rising to greet her, he bowed slightly and shook her small, gloved hand. "Good morning, Mrs. Mills. I trust you're well?"

"Yes, quite well," she responded. He ushered her to the familiar blue chair in front of his desk by the window. Isabelle watched him go around it and take his seat across from her. She was tense; this wasn't going to be a pleasant meeting.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Mills?" he asked politely.

She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and released it. There was no need to delay doing what she had to do. Reluctantly, she opened her handbag and removed a small, black box and placed it on the banker's desk, pushing it near him. Tears threatened her eyes as she said, "I've come to, um, see what I can get for this necklace."

Cogsworth offered her a sympathetic smile before reaching for the little square box. Opening the lid, he gasped in surprise at the intricate locket inside. Wrought in solid gold, the oval casing featured a beautiful, upraised fleur-de-lis pattern hovering over a single, one-karat diamond. A small side hook released the clasp and opened to an inner chamber from which Isabelle had removed the small photos of her parents earlier that morning. The locket was suspended from a long, delicate gold chain. Obviously an antique and well cared for, he recognized that the piece was quite valuable. Glancing up, he watched as Isabelle mustered all of the dignity she possessed with her eyes so bravely fixed on his. "A family heirloom?" he asked.

"Yes: it was my mother's necklace, and her mother's before her," she acknowledged quietly.

She looked so young and small as she waited, ashen faced, for his answer. "You understand, I can't give you what it's actually worth?" She lowered her eyes and nodded. A stab of pity welled in his heart for her. Though known as a man taken with rules and numbers, he was actually very kind-hearted and had a bit of a tender place when it came to the lovely widow. He'd been concerned for her for some time, fearing she'd lose everything after her income from her late husband had been terminated, and had watched her struggle fearlessly to keep her family going in the months that had followed. He admired her courage in the face of this adversity. She had told him of her plans to become an author and, though he had no doubt she had a gift for words, he feared her dreams would soon fall short of the reality of her finances. Smiling encouragingly, he returned the necklace to its box. "I can give you $75 for the necklace."

She'd hoped for more, but trusted the banker to be fair in his offer. "Thank you, Mr. Cogsworth." It would have to make do.

The banker contemplated the transaction for a moment. It was a good day for the bank: the money he paid out for the necklace would net a sizable profit for the stockholders once it was sold. That was the banker in him thinking. Cogsworth, the man, was more than a banker, however. He was a neighbor and a servant of the community. The lovely widow was a very precious member of that community. She had friends here, more than she knew. She was brave enough to live in a haunted house; a house he'd never be able to sell again should she leave. He didn't want to lose her, as would happen if her fortunes weren't turned to a better direction.

"I'm not finished," he admonished good-naturedly. "This is a loan, Mrs. Mills. I'll hold the necklace in the vault for two months to give you time to find a means of income. At that time, we can set up a payment plan based on a fair interest rate. If you can't start making payments at that time, then I'll have to sell the necklace."

Isabelle was touched by his generosity, and the tears she'd been fighting began to silently course down her cheeks. Removing a lacy handkerchief from her purse, she wiped her eyes as she thanked him.

The banker smiled fondly at her, and sat forward with his hands clasped on the desk top. "We've known each other a while now, haven't we?" he asked, "Long enough to consider ourselves friends?"

"Yes, Mr. Cogsworth, I consider you to be a very good friend." Offering him a watery smile, she finished dabbing at her eyes and folded her handkerchief on her lap.

"Well, then," he began, "let me be frank with you, friend to friend." He studied her a moment, gauging how to proceed. "First, let me tell you that I admire you greatly. I've seldom seen anyone face their problems head-on as you have; you are to be commended for it. But, Mrs. Mills, if I may say so," he shifted uncomfortably, "I think the time has come for you to adopt a more practical means of supporting yourself."

Her teeth worried her bottom lip as she listened. "You're talking about opening the house to boarders, aren't you?" she asked.

Nodding his head, he answered, "Yes. I think there are plenty of people coming to work in Storybrooke so that your spare rooms can be filled in no time." He watched for her reaction; saw her mull the prospect over in her mind. "You've considered opening the house before. We've gone over the numbers and it _is_ a feasible business opportunity for you; given that the, um _house_ , is agreeable that is."

Knowing she had no other options before her, and truly wishing her success, the banker plunged on. "If you move to open your home to boarders, I can double the loan amount; give you the capital you'll need to get things going. You can purchase any furnishings you lack and hire a couple of men to help you set things up. You'll be showing a marginal profit within six months." Smiling conspiratorially, he offered, "I can even give you back your mother's necklace."

Isabelle sat studying her hands as she thought about his proposal. Opening a boarding house had appealed to her seven months ago, but that was before the book. That was before she had feelings for Daniel. He didn't want her to bring strangers into the house and, now, neither did she. She cherished her time with the captain, wanted to spend her hours talking with him, writing with him, loving him. She loved spending time with Lucy and chatting with Martha. Boarders would demand her time and energy, robbing her of her ability to continue writing, and robbing her of her time with her family. On the other hand, _time_ was something she was quickly running out of. Before long, neither Martha's dwindling resources nor the last of her jewelry would allow them the ability to pay for groceries or utilities. They were also reaching a point where continuing to let Martha pay for their upkeep would be unreasonable.

If she placed all of her hopes on the book being published and it failed, she'd be forced to sell the house and move back to  Boston with Gerald's family. She'd loose her independence and self-respect. She'd lose Daniel! Neither prospect was acceptable and she swallowed the bile that rose from counting such losses. She'd have to broach the subject with the captain once more, make him see how sacrificing on their part would gain them the ability to stay together.

"Mr. Cogsworth," she began, "I appreciate your offer. May I have some time to think it over?"

Relieved, the banker nodded vigorously. "Of course, madam. Think it over by all means, and talk it over with Miss Potts and, um, whoever you need to talk it over with. You may have two weeks to consider what you must do." He rose and walked around the desk, offered her his hand and helped her to rise. "In the meantime, your necklace will be in the safe as collateral for the loan you have now."

He walked her to the door, and then held it open for her, the little bell tingling a bit more merrily as she stepped out into the fine spring sunlight. Were that her heart was as light.

** XXXXX **

Isabelle put on the old, blue cotton dress she usually washed laundry in, pulled her hair back into a quick braid then covered herself in a long, worn apron. Passing through the kitchen, she exchanged a few words with Martha and then made her way to the vine covered, clapboard well house in the back yard. After procuring a rake, hoe and shovel, she found a sunny plot of grass just beyond her rose garden and began attacking the ground, turning the soil over and over as she plodded along. For the span of half-an-hour she worked steadily, refusing to let her mind focus on anything. She didn't want to think, didn't want to dream or hope or dread. Instead, she welcomed the slow burn growing in her arms as she wielded the hoe and shovel alternately. A sheen of sweat covered her skin as she turned the earth.

A cup of water floated to her from the water pump on the porch, settling at eye level and catching her attention. Laughing, she dropped the shovel on the ground and grabbed the cup with both hands, bringing it gratefully to her dry, parched lips. After draining the cup, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Thank you, Daniel."

Grinning, the captain materialized in front of her. "Ye looked like ye needed a drink. Tell me, what did this wee bit of earth do to ye that ye'd attack it like this?"

She reached into the pocket of her apron and retrieved several packets before answering. "I'm putting in a garden." She fanned the packets out before him. "Lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and cabbage here on these two rows. On the other rows: green beans, carrots, and onions. And there, on the ends, garlic, basil, rosemary and dill."

Smirking, he nodded. "Quite an impressive selection. Planning on feeding an army?"

"No," she said quietly, slipping the seed packets back into her pocket. "Boarders."

They stood, silently gazing into each other's eyes, each considering the weight of adopting that particular solution. Daniel raised his hand, cupping her dirt-smudged face and softly asked, "Have ye given up then, love?"

Isabelle closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, reveling in how solid it felt. "No." She raised her own hand to secure his to her cheek. "No, not yet. But I want to be prepared should we have to do so." Opening her eyes, she flashed him a wicked grin. "If it doesn't happen, I suppose we'll have to eat a lot of salad."

Daniel laughed and pushed his fingers into her hair, cradling her face and pulling her closer. "Ye are a force to be reckoned with, Belle-of-mine, do ye know that?" Holding her thus, he pressed his lips to hers, kissing her through his smile. Pulling back, he reveled in the darkening of her blue eyes as she gazed back at him with hope and determination. "So, ye mean to stay, do ye?" he teased.

"Of course!" she declared. "When I find something worth fighting for, I never give up."

Without taking his eyes from hers, he slid his hands down her arms, finding and holding her own. "Ye really love this house, don't ye?"

"I really love _you_ , Daniel."

A breeze whispered against them as they stood facing one another: Daniel marveling at this petite woman with the heart of a warrior, and Isabelle enraptured with the man to whom that heart belonged.

He gave her hands a light squeeze before releasing them. Bending over, he picked up the shovel and struck the dirt with it. Leaning into the task, he began turning the earth over, widening the garden area she'd started. As much as he hated the thought of sharing their home with strangers, he hated the thought of losing her more. If she lost the house, he would never see her again. So, he'd help her put in a garden, and he'd behave if it came to opening their rooms to the public. Well, _mostly_ he'd behave. Smiling, Isabelle lifted the hoe and struck the clumps that were cast over in his wake.

"Mrs. Mills?''

Isabelle started as she heard Martha's voice calling from the back porch. _Mrs. Mills?_ Martha only called her that when she had visitors. She and Daniel stopped digging, and she walked a few feet to the other side of the well house so she could see the servant standing on the porch. "What is it, Martha?"

The older woman spotted her and quickly made her way down the porch steps and over to her. A bit breathless and definitely perturbed, she quietly said, "It's Mrs. Mills, Miss: she's here and she wants to speak with you."

Her mother-in-law was here? Whatever for? Isabelle instantly felt the agitation that usually accompanied her visits with Cora Mills. Looking over her shoulder at Daniel standing with shovel in hand, she saw him smirk mischievously. She shot him a warning look and then turned to follow Martha back into the house. In the kitchen, she quickly moistened a cloth and washed the sweat and grit from her face and hands while Martha readied the expected tea tray. Removing her dirt stained apron, Isabelle smoothed over her skirt and hair, hoping she looked somewhat presentable after being taken by surprise. Once the tea tray was ready, she preceded Martha into the parlor where her abhorrent relative waited for their arrival.

Cora was seated in one of the blue chairs by the hearth, the fullness of her perfect skirt of black silk spread over her lap. She was staring dejectedly into the hollow darkness of the unlit hearth, her hands wringing a lacy handkerchief. As Isabelle entered, she looked up and offered her daughter-in-law a sad smile. Rising, she slowly approached the younger woman, met her halfway into the room and embraced her. She appeared frail and sad, and Isabelle was immediately concerned for her.

Pulling back from her embrace she asked Cora, "Mother Mills, are you alright?"

Smiling tremulously, Cora's eyes teared and her chin quavered. She dabbed at her eyes and, taking Isabelle's hand, led her to the two blue chairs near the hearth. Sitting, she answered, "Of course, my dear. I've just been a bit . . . out of sorts of late."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Isabelle said sincerely. She poured tea into two cups, dropping two sugar cubes into one before stirring in a bit of cream. Handing it to the older woman, she asked, "Should you have made such a long trip to visit?"

Cora accepted the cup and sipped it appreciatively, savoring the mild, sweet flavor. She missed Martha's tea, always excellent. "Of course, dear, I wanted to see you and my granddaughter. Lucy's at school, of course?"

"Yes, she is."

"And how is she doing?"

Isabelle sipped her own tea, allowing the sweet, hot liquid to course through her over-stimulated limbs. "Very well; she loves school and her teacher, Mrs. Hoffman. She's making excellent marks and she has a lot of friends."

"That's fine, dear. I'm sure you're quite proud of her." She placed her cup and saucer down on the tea table and leveled a concerned and inquisitive gaze upon her daughter-in-law. "And, what about you, dear? I've been worried about you since our last visit."

"I'm fine."

Cora smiled indulgently. "That's good to hear. I was afraid you'd have difficulty supporting yourself since losing the oil money."

_ "Ah, she's come to see ye run aground, me dear!" _ Isabelle glanced behind her mother-in-law to see Daniel materialize behind her, a knowing smirk on his rugged face.

Relieved to see him, she regarded Cora and answered carefully, "We've managed quite well, thank you."

"Oh?" Cora queried, looking a bit surprised. "That is good news, Isabelle. I was afraid things might not be well with you at all." She placed her empty cup and saucer on the tea table and sat up, her back straight and her hands clasped loosely in her lap. She raised an eyebrow and leveled a knowing stare at her. "I'm curious as to how you've managed?"

Daniel, now several paces to the woman's right, took a guarded stance in front of the hearth, arms crossed and legs apart. Looking into the harpy's face, he recognized the cunning workings behind her eyes. " _Tell her it's none of her business."_

Isabelle put her own cup down, and folded her hands loosely in her lap, mirroring Cora. Keeping her eyes steadily trained on her mother-in-laws, she answered, "We've done whatever we've needed to do; cut corners - and sold a few things."

A small glint rose to Cora's dark eyes. She noticed that Isabelle made no mention of the book she'd hoped to publish. Her instruction to Jones that he threaten to call in his friends' marker if the work was published must have worked. She could see the growing desperation under Isabelle's calm and reassuring façade and recognized this moment as a prime time to push her in a new direction, so she offered her most benevolent smile. "So, you've been selling things off, hhmmm?" Pointing at the younger woman's' left hand she asked, "Your jewelry, perhaps: your wedding ring?" She had the satisfaction of Isabelle blushing and lowering her gaze guiltily. Sighing and shaking her head, Cora added, "Poor Gerald! What would he say if he knew how little you regarded his gifts to you?"

Anger instantly replaced the shame Isabelle had felt a moment before. " _Lucy_ is Gerald's gift to me, and I did what I did to support her! As a father, I'm sure Gerald would appreciate the fact that I'm taking care of our daughter; especially since you say he deprived me of any means of doing so before he died!"

"Of course, my dear!" Cora soothed. "I only meant it was a shame that things have come to this. Gerald was a very generous man, and I'm sure he would have wanted his daughter and his _wife_ to lack for nothing."

_ "Steady now," _ Daniel interjected as he watched Isabelle clench and unclench her fists in an attempt to reign in her anger.

Cora smile benevolently and continued, "And what about Martha? Have you been able to pay her as well?"

Isabelle closed her eyes, breaking contact with the older woman. Her face reddened, confirming what Cora had already surmised. "Ah, Martha's been helping to support you!" Cora permitted herself a small, triumphant smile as she watched her daughter-in-law look away.

_ "Buck up, me darlin', ye've nothin' to be ashamed of!" _

She glanced over at the captain, steady as a shoreline in turbulent waters. In his deep, brown eyes lay the encouragement she needed to stay a good course. Her mother-in-law was setting a trap for her, for whatever reason she didn't know. Almost certainly this had been her plan all along, from the moment she'd told Isabelle there would be no more income to the moment she stepped foot into the parlor. The realization pushed aside her self-reproach and she turned cold, blue eyes to the woman seated across from her. "What is it you want, Mrs. Mills?" she asked coldly, "Why are you here?"

Cora regarded her imperiously. "You don't need to take that tone with me, Isabelle," she reprimanded quietly. Allowing her features to soften to a vulnerable guise, she continued with a quavering voice, "I really am concerned for you, my dear."

Isabelle regarded Cora for a few heartbeats. She was used to her maternal platitudes and feigned concern; had fallen prey to the tearful glances and sweetly veiled recriminations, all used as buffers against antagonistic accusations. Somehow, though, the family matriarch was off her game, somewhat obvious in her delivery. She usually had an ally to play off of. Placing her hands on the arms of her chair, Isabelle sat up a little straighter. Raising a brow inquisitively, she asked, "Where's  Regina ?"

Cora's gaze dropped to her lap as she allowed a single tear to overflow and course slowly down her withering cheek. Raising her handkerchief to her face, she held it there for a moment, slowly wiping the salty droplet, looking for all the world like a mother whose broken heart had suddenly been exposed. Her voice quavering, she said answered, "She's gone, Isabelle. She eloped a few weeks ago."

This was news indeed. Stunned, Isabelle looked up at Daniel, who simply shrugged, and then back, momentarily speechless.

Cora plunged ahead. "Young Daniel Olster is a successful rancher from  Oklahoma . He's quite handsome, of course. I'm afraid  Regina fell hopelessly in love. So much so that she decided to forego a proper courtship and wedding. She was gone for three days before she sent a note telling me what she'd done." Tears coursed silently down her cheeks. Sniffing loudly, she forced a smile and continued. "Of course, I have forgiven her," Cora assured her. "Mr. Olster is such a wonderful young man, and he has quite a future in politics."

_ "So, she's still useful to the old witch," _ Daniel observed, exchanging glances with Isabelle.

"Well, it, um, sounds quite romantic," Isabelle offered, clearing her throat. "I'm sure she'll be very happy."

Her mother-in-law shook her head in resigned affirmation while still swiping at her eyes with her lacy handkerchief. "Of course, she will," Cora conceded wistfully. Tucking the damp cloth into her sleeve, she shifted forward in her chair and reached across, closing the sparse distance between them. She placed her hand on Isabelle's where she was gripping the arm of her chair. The contact chilled the young woman to the bone. "And that's why I'm here," the older woman continued after a moment of searching Isabelle's wary crystalline eyes.

"You see, dear, I've realized just how blind I've become to the changes in our family. With Henry and Gerald . . . gone, I've been working so hard to carry on in their absence that I failed to see that the rest of my family was growing away from me. First, you moved away to this place, taking my granddaughter so far away, and now  Regina has move even further away."

"Mrs. Mills . . . Mother . . ."

"No, dear," Cora shook her head, "I don't blame you; it's only natural for young people to move on. Your husband was gone and you had no sense of direction. I understand: you came here to start over, and it hasn't been easy." Raising a hand to Isabelle's cheek, she cupped her face and offered her a watery smile. "I'm sorry, dear, that I've neglected you all these months. I was so busy that I never considered how you must be struggling, what with no income and a growing child to care for. I've come here to make amends."

"Please, there's no need to . . ."

"Oh, dear," Cora said fondly, "You and Lucy are all I have left of Gerald. You're my family and I _want_ to help you."

Isabelle glanced past her to Daniel, but all he had to offer her was an arched brow and a scowl. Returning her attention to the woman in front of her, she gently brushed away her hand from her face and gave it a reassuring squeeze before redirecting both of Cora's hands into her own lap and then sitting back from her. "I don't know what to say. I assure you, we are all doing quite well on our own."

"I'm sure you think you are," Cora observed, "but _I_ think you deserve better. After all, you've done as well as you have by barter and charity. I want you and Lucy to have a life without unnecessary sacrifice. Do you remember meeting Leopold Blanchard?"

Isabelle blinked, wondering what direction Cora had suddenly turned. "Yes, I remember him. He was a very kind man. Didn't his wife die around the same time as Mr. Mills?"

"Yes, poor dear," Cora smiled sympathetically. "He has a daughter about Lucy's age."

"I remember: Mary Margaret, a very sweet girl. She and Lucy played together during one of your dinner parties."

Her mother-in-law seemed pleased. "Yes, of course. She is a sweet girl, and she misses her mother terribly. That's why Mr. Blanchard has decided to take a wife. He wants a mother for his daughter and he's expressed an interest in you, my dear."

"What?" Isabelle was aghast. "How could he possibly be interested in me?"

"I told him about you, of course," Cora beamed. "I've had several discussions with him over the last few months, since he's expressed his desire to marry again. I've told him what a wonderful mother you are, dear. He's very old fashioned when it comes to family, but he also likes the idea that you're educated and independent. He wants only the best for his little girl and he wants to meet with you, get to know you better." She breached the space between them again to seize the young woman's hands in her own again. "Just think, Isabelle, Lucy could have a sister, and you wouldn't have to worry about money anymore. You could reclaim your place in society, with a good man at your side."

Isabelle simply stared at her for a few moments, her mouth agape and her eyes wide with shock. Suddenly she pulled her hands from her mother-in-law's grasp and stood, pushing the chair back with the force of her body as she stepped back from Cora.

_ "Oh, oh, oh," _ Daniel laughed darkly. _"She's auctioned ye off to be sure an' there's something big at stake here!"_

In all of the years Isabelle had known Cora Mills, she had never once done anything that didn't have a direct correlation with advancing her own agenda. Narrowing her eyes, she thought hard to put the pieces together, but couldn't see where the advantage lay for Cora with this scheme. "Am I to understand that you want me to . . . _marry_ . . . Mr. Blanchard?" she asked. When Cora answered with a sly smile and a nod of her head, she asked, "What's in it for you?"

"Why, your happiness, of course."

"No," Isabelle countered, "I don't believe that. You'd never trouble yourself to make a match like this unless it worked to your advantage. What does he have that you want?"

Slowly, Cora rose, and taking three steps, halted a mere foot before her slender daughter-in-law, leveling an appreciative stare into the stormy cerulean eyes of the younger woman. "You're a smart woman, Isabelle."

Turning, she walked back to her chair, sat and smoothed the shimmery black silk of her skirt over her lap. "I must say, I rather like you like this. I think it may work better if we understand one another rather than muddle through this entire pretense." She motioned for Isabelle to take the opposite seat, becoming a bit chagrined as the girl resolutely kept her place. Lifting the teapot, she refilled her cup and continued to sugar and cream her tea as she began her explanation. "It's like this, dear: Leopold Blanchard owns a shipping company. Not just any company, mind you, but the largest coast to coast company in the country."

"And you want a merger?"

"Certainly." She rewarded her with a nod and continued. "We already ship our steel and other goods overseas, and I want to expand our reach within the continent. I approached him with an offer, but he wouldn't hear of it. You see, Blanchard _is_ a very old fashioned man. He wants to keep the business in the family. He won't consider joining with anyone who isn't related to him."

Isabelle crossed her arms and, leveling her gaze on Cora before asking, "Then why don't _you_ marry him?"

"As I said, he's very old fashioned. He'd never allow his wife in the boardroom, and as my husband, he'd take over everything I've built. He'd shut me out of my own business and _that_ is not acceptable."

"But marrying _me_ off to him is?" Isabelle asked incredulously.

"With you as his wife, he'd be more than willing to go into business with our family," Cora admitted, "and I will retain my autonomy." Pausing, she offered her an indulgent smile. "This arrangement will work out well for you, too! After all, he's a very wealthy man. You won't have to worry about supporting yourself and Lucy. And Blanchard wants a mother for his only child, something I admit you are very good at."

"Do you honestly expect me to go along with this?" Isabelle couldn't have been more appalled.

Cora's face hardened; her jaw clenching as she addressed her. "Don't be so naive, Isabelle. Your parent's are dead, and all you have left of them is this house that you squandered your inheritance on. You have no means of supporting yourself past a few weeks longer, and then you'll lose it, too. What I'm offering is a way for you and your daughter to be taken care of."

Isabelle shook with outrage. "You care _nothing_ for me _or_ Lucy!" she spat.

"Nonsense, Isabelle," laughed Cora. "You're still a Mills, and you stand to gain from this venture as much as I do. You'll be bringing a new business interest to your husband as well. Consider, too, that he was very generous to his first wife; I'm sure he'll be just as generous with you, and Lucy will be able to go to the finest schools. Don't you see? This is a good move for everyone."

Isabelle turned toward Daniel, utterly astonished. To discover she was the object of her mother-in-law's plots was enough to make her ill, but the captain was livid. His eyes, fixed upon Cora's smug visage, were feverish and he was barely containing his anger, his fists clenched at his side. She could see murder in those eyes. As he took a step toward the woman, Isabelle fended him off with a single command: "NO!" Growling a curse, he cast one last glance at Isabelle and vanished somewhere to cool off.

Cora jumped at the unexpected cry, upsetting her teacup and spilling the tepid drink on her lap. She had no moment to complain, however, as Isabelle turned on her in barely contained fury. "No, Mrs. Mills, I will _not_ go along with this plan of yours!" Impassioned, she paced a few steps before halting in front of the hateful woman seated at her hearth. "How dare you come here and try to manipulate me like this? You think I don't know that you're responsible for the loss of the oil shares; for my father losing his company? And now you think I'm yours to sell for a business arrangement?"

"You have more money than you could ever spend, but it's never enough – you always want more!" Isabelle upbraided her mother-in-law. "How pathetic! I have tolerated your lies and plots for the sake of family since the day I married your son, but no more. I don't ever want to see or hear from you again. And that goes for Lucy as well. Now get out of my house!"

Cora glared at Isabelle. She stood, slowly drawing herself up to her full height and gave her cold, wet skirt a shake as she walked over to the desk. With deliberate nonchalance, she picked up her gloves and pulled them on, then began pinning her hat on while she addressed her daughter-in-law one final time. "I suppose you think I'm a bad person for trying to make these arrangements, my dear, but I'm sure you'll see the wisdom of my actions soon enough. In a few weeks, when you've sold off everything of value and Martha Potts has spent her last dime to keep bread on the table, I'm sure you'll be more receptive of my _lies and plots_." Picking up her small purse, she walked out of the parlor, through the foyer and out of the front door.

The bright sunlight shining outside did nothing to warm Cora's cold heart as she stepped over the threshold. Furious, she marched down the porch steps and up the walkway to the gate of the picket fence surrounding the flower-laden yard, a gentle breeze fluttering at her skirt and the veil of her hat. She had known she wouldn't be staying long, so she'd ordered the driver of her rented carriage to stand by, but neither the carriage nor the thick, burley driver were anywhere to be seen. Already incensed by Isabelle's rejection, her eyes searched up and down the dusty road but found nothing of the conveyance.

"He's gone back to the village."

Cora startled at the soft voice and turned, to the bearded man standing just inside the fence by the gate, leaning on a garden hoe. She'd just walked past that gate and hadn't noticed him there. It was a bit unnerving. "Who?"

"Yer driver. He's up the road a piece."

Irritated, she asked, "and just why would he do that?"

"Because I told him to."

Cora studied him more closely, a prickle of fear settling over her as she met his hard, brown eyes. Although she was sure she'd never met him before, he was strangely familiar. That he held malice for her was evident in the set of his jaw and the heat of his gaze. Drawing herself up haughtily, she demanded quietly, "why would _you_ do that?"

"We need to talk, ye and me," he said, shrugging. "Ye need to listen to what I ha' to say to ye. I didn't want any distractions."

"Who are you?" she asked warily.

Smiling darkly, he answered, "Someone ye should do well to heed."

"And what do you _need_ to say to me?" she hissed.

He held her gaze for a dozen heartbeats, still as stone as the wind kicked up rustling the leaves of new growth about the fence line. Fear traced up her spine and settled in her chest. She raised a hand to her throat to stifle the urge to gasp, but resolutely held her place, waiting for him to answer. There was something strange and very frightening about this man who stood before her.

"Isabelle has asked ye to leave her be, and ye will," he ordered her. "Ye'll no' write to her, nor will ye meddle in her affairs from afar; and you won't visit her again."

"And who are you to tell me to stay away from my own family?" she demanded.

An ugly smirk crossed his features. "I am Isabelle's friend," he answered, "and her protector."

Cora stared at Daniel, gauged the strength and conviction of his words. Few men inspired fear in her as this one did. He stood stock still before her, unblinking and unyielding. She was good at reading people and she realized he was dangerous. Agitated by the dancing of her veil in the slight wind, she reached up and unpinned her hat, hastily pulling it off. It was then her heart sank as it dawned on her what exactly it was that made him seem so strange: he was totally unaffected by the breeze shuddering the world around them. Neither his hair nor his clothing were affected in the least. It was at that moment she recognized him as the man in the portrait hanging on Isabelle's wall: a man who was dead!

Sneering, he continued, "Ye should go now, dearie. I won't tell ye again not to come back."

Having said his piece, he spat on the ground and laid the handle of the hoe against the fence. Turning his back on her, he strode slowly and deliberately up the walkway, his gait confident as he climbed the steps, stopped, and then turned again to stare her down from the porch. As she watched, he crossed his arm over his chest defiantly and flashed her a nasty smirk. Then, he simply vanished.

Terrified, Cora ran up the road toward Storybrooke, slowing down to a walk only after she'd rounded the bend in the road and saw the carriage up ahead. Her heart racing, she paced off the twenty or so feet to the rented conveyance, allowed the driver to help her up and inside and they began the journey to the boarding house.

Shaking in fear, Cora raged impotently in her seat, trying to reign in her thoughts and emotions of the past hour. What little hope she'd have of manipulating or cajoling Isabelle into helping her to implement her plan had been completely thwarted by the stubborn girl and by the apparition protecting her.

_ A ghost.  _

The modern world of enlightenment and industry had little use of such notions of afterlife or haunting spirits, but Cora was not immune to the knowledge of things pertaining to the netherworld. She had encountered her share of ghosts, albeit in her dreams. There, in the illusion of night, they confronted her with their accusations and their stares; there she met them with heartless dispatch, cutting out their tongues and ignoring the burn of their eyes. They were terrified of her, and she reveled in that terror, in the power it gave her.

She'd never before encountered one that spoke to her, whose eyes bore into her soul and struck her with fear. She'd never come across one who'd set her running with her tail tucked between her legs.

It was intolerable. The entire situation was intolerable. Hate for her daughter-in-law and her ethereal protector rose like bile in her throat, and she forced it down lest she choke on it. Her plans may be as good as ashes now: her daughter out from under her influence, her son's widow untouchable. She would _not_ take this lying down.

** XXXXX **

Nearly two weeks more passed with no word, and the exhausting knot in Isabelle's stomach had become a permanent companion. Twelve days had whittled away her earlier optimism, leaving a melancholy ache in its place. She'd spoken with Daniel and Martha respectively, going over the logistics of refurbishing and stocking the house to receive borders. Though not pleased, Daniel conceded the plan was fast becoming their only option. In two days she'd have to go to the bank and secure the loan Cogsworth had promised her.

Isabelle was coming out of the mercantile when Killian found her. Happy to see her friend back in Storybrooke, she greeted him with a smile.

"Hello, love," Killian returned with a lopsided grin. "I thought I'd find you here."

"That's not surprising," she acknowledged, "since I do the shopping every Monday."

"Surely you haven't become that predictable?" he teased.

Laughing, she admitted, "I'm afraid I have!" She allowed him to take her basket and then accepted the arm he offered. Walking in the direction of the beach and home, they discussed his recent trip to  Boston and his upcoming assignment to follow up on the ongoing skirmishes in  South America and the  Caribbean .

"It sounds very exciting."

"Not really, love. 'There's a war going on near the equator' is fast becoming a boring cliché," he said almost bitterly. He laughed at her puzzled glance. "I must be getting old. All of this war hopping is getting to be quite routine; it's losing its appeal."

Shrugging, she suggested, "perhaps you should try something different?"

"It's funny you should say that," he answered. He had come to a crossroad, and now was the time to decide what direction to take. He had his orders from Cora: _'seduce the girl, promise her the moon, get her to sell her house and move to_ _ Boston _ _ ; in a few weeks, disappear and don't look back.'  _ Cora's future plans for Isabelle – whatever they were – didn't include him after he left her broken and open to her mother-in-law's devices. A large sum of money would find its way into his bank account, and he was never to set foot in  Boston again.

It was the plan he'd signed on for, but it wasn't the one he wanted to finish now.

He'd never met anyone like Isabelle, had never _felt_ what he felt for any other woman. She was brave and funny, intelligent and kind. She stirred things in him that he never even knew existed. He wasn't the kind of man who put down roots, longed to bind himself to one heart or make a family, but for the first time in his life, he _wanted_ to be. Neither did he wish to see her spirit quenched as it inevitably would if she was forced to play the harpy's game.

Disgusted, he remembered sitting in Cora's private booth at the restaurant in  Boston , eating an expensive steak and drinking an even more expensive wine while she laid out the details of his "contract." He'd been more than willing to do her bidding then; had done similar jobs for her in the past, his actions facilitating the placement of her endless supply of pawns. It galled him now to think of how heavily his pockets had been lined by Cora's money, and all of it paid out by the ruin of other people's lives. Of course, he'd never considered the others, didn't really consider them now, truth be told. But, he considered Isabelle, and _this_ consideration was a game changer.

They had come to the edge of town along the beachfront, the bend in the road leading to the pink house and flower-laden yard just ahead. Rather than continuing homeward, they veered left to the path that led to the shoreline. The salty waters of the ocean gently lapped at the sand and gulls keened loudly overhead. He guided her to a bench set some twenty feet from the surf and they took a seat beside each other. Killian leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he wrestled with his thoughts, Isabelle watching the gulls and waiting patiently for him to share those thoughts with her.

"You know, love," he began, his eyes focused on his hands, "Hopper isn't going to publish your book."

He heard her gasp as his words registered in her mind. In a small voice that tore at his heart she asked, "Did he tell you that?"

"Not directly," he explained. "He said his board of directors wasn't willing to publish anything by a woman."

"But, he liked it!"

Turning now to face her, he continued. "Yes, he did. He liked you, but that wasn't enough to get it approved."

Isabelle felt as if the land had dropped below her and she dangled over a precipice. The book represented everything she and Daniel had built together and it was being dismissed because the world wasn't ready to accept a _woman_ as a serious author? Her vision blurred and her heart felt like it had turned to stone as she heard his words repeated over and over in her mind. She felt faint, and raising a hand to her face, she realized she was crying. _Oh Daniel, I'm so sorry._

Killian, aggrieved by the sight of the beauty in tears, pulled his handkerchief out of his vest pocket and handed it to her, smiling sympathetically as she accepted it and wiped her eyes. Sitting back, he rested his arm on the back of the bench and took her left hand, playing idly with her delicate fingers. _A ring would look perfect there._ Offering her a lopsided grin, he said, "You know, love. The world is a lot bigger than  Boston ." She offered him a watery smile and a nod, encouraging him to continue. "You should see  Florida : sun and sand all along the coast, with palm trees and white beaches and the ocean so blue that you can't tell where it ends and the sky begins! It's warm there, and the people are friendly. It's a good place."

He knew by the confused attention she was giving him that she had no idea why he was telling her these things, knew that she'd like to be alone in her room so she could succumb to the tears she was valiantly holding in check. Killian was a gambler, and he was good at the game. He always knew who held what cards, and he always knew the players. Cora had stripped Isabelle of all of her resources and now his role was to feed her false hope, and then strip her of it when the time was right. This was a game they'd played countless times, a clandestine partnership that guaranteed who took the pot home, insuring the both of them the profit and the other player absolutely nothing. This time, though, he also knew that Isabelle had a wild card that would, if played correctly, tip the pot in her favor.

He raised the hand he'd been caressing to his lips and pressed a kiss upon her knuckles. In this moment, he made his decision. He felt his emotions rise in response to his awakened love for this woman along with the desire to protect her. "I have a house in  Florida , near the beach in Daytona. It's a fine house, with a door that faces east. You can see miles of ocean from the balcony. Boats from all over the world dock at the port there and anything your heart desires can be bought. It's a beautiful and exciting place."

He fixed an earnest gaze on her and lowered his voice. "Come with me, Isabelle; come to  Florida with me."

Confusion showed on her face as she tried to make sense of Killian's words. "What? What are you saying?"

Smiling brightly, Killian brushed her cheek with his fingers. "What I'm saying, Isabelle – what I'm asking – is will you marry me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, OneMagician for her most excellent editing of my work. Your feedback, encouragement and honesty has made this a fun and exciting project.


	17. What the Heart Wants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration: If I Walk Away by Josh Gobin

Isabelle stared at Killian, stunned and speechless. Surely he had not asked what she thought he'd asked! "Killian . . . I . . . I don't know what . . . "

"Hear me out, love," he interrupted. "I know you're trying to make it on your own, and you've made a valiant effort. But, now things aren't going very well. You're going to lose everything if you don't do something soon."

"I have been doing something," Isabelle admonished defensively. "I've written a book."

"Which isn't going to be published," Jones reminded her gently.

"It will be published," she declared, eyes flashing.

She was so beautiful when she was angry, but he didn't need her angry right now. "Yes, in time, I'm sure of it," he placated her, "just not now." Isabelle closed her eyes and lowered her head dejectedly. Lifting her chin with his fingers, he forced her to look at him and offered a crooked, supportive smile. "It will be published some day, love, but you have to live in the here and now."

She took a deep breath and released it, willing herself to hold on to her confidence. "I know."

"Good, then we're agreed," he teased lightly, drawing a reluctant chuckle from her. Releasing her chin, he continued, "I want you and Lucy to come with me to  Florida . You'll have all of the time in the world to write. And you can raise Lucy however you see fit. You can even bring Miss Potts with you."

"Killian . . ."

"I know, she hates me, but she hasn't gotten to know me yet," he winked. Exchanging the playful grin, he held her eyes with a sincere gaze. "I love you, Isabelle, and I want this." Without taking his eyes from hers, he raised her hand to his face to place a gentle kiss in her palm, eliciting a shudder from her. "Say you'll marry me?"

Stunned, she stared at him, a gentle breeze playing with his black, unruly locks; his handsome features alight with pure adoration. _He loved her?_ How had she missed this? She was such a fool! He'd been courting her for months, but she'd only seen him as a friend, had never taken his flirtations seriously. He'd kissed her several weeks ago, but she'd dismissed that as an emotional farewell at the end of a journey together. Since then, he'd made no other advances, and yet, here he was sitting beside her, squeezing her hand and waiting for her answer. "Killian," she began hesitantly, "I can't marry you."

"Yes, you can," he insisted, shifting on the bench and speaking animatedly. "You don't have to lose everything. You can sell the house; we'll pack whatever you want to take on my boat and sail any time you're ready. I know a little chapel in  Georgia where we can stop over and get married; then we'll follow the coast home." Excitement rolled off of him and he offered her a toothy grin. He realized he'd never wanted anything so much as Isabelle; he'd pay Cora back the money she'd given him and would never cross her path again. "Think of the adventure, love! We'll have such a wonderful life together."

Isabelle took a deep breath and released it as she slowly withdrew her hand from his. "Killian," she said softly, "I don't need you to marry me out of my troubles."

"Of course not," he laughed. "I don't want to rescue you, Isabelle; I want to share my life with you. I want to walk on beaches, and listen to you tell stories, and I want to kiss your pretty lips," confirming his words by eagerly pressing a hasty kiss against her astonished lips befor quieting and letting the conviction of his proposal reflect in the depths of his icy, blue gaze. "I've never known anyone like you; it makes me happy just to hear your voice, to look at your smile. I want . . . I want to come home to you after a long voyage and know that you're happy to see _me_."

Giving him a reassuring smile, she tried to let him down gently, although she was quite sure that no matter what she said now, it was bound to hurt. "Killian, I am always happy to see you," she said honestly, "You're my _friend_ , and I care about you; I just don't love you the way I should to marry you."

Jones stilled as he absorbed her words. He'd been certain that they had grown beyond casual friendship. He thought back to their day on the beach, to the photograph he'd taken of her capturing the enraptured look of love she'd given him. They were good together; he was good with her, and he'd never been good with anybody. Even when they didn't agree on things, and that was often, they never fought or lost their humor with one another."

Perhaps she was too determined to succeed on her own, or perhaps she didn't know her own heart. Maybe she was too distracted by her financial woes to entertain the possibility of the life he was offering her, but he knew he could make her happy, would do anything in the world to make her happy.

Leaning forward, he continued to press his advantage. "Our friendship is good, Isabelle. Marriages have been built on far less."

In one motion, he moved off of the bench and onto one knee in the sand before her, an earnest, almost desperate plea written in the furrows of his upturned face. "You married a man you loved, I know you did; and he turned out to only be interested in making money and pleasing himself. Marry _me_ , and I promise you'll have the time of _your_ life."

The sincerity on his face as he knelt in the sand broke her heart. "Killian," she began gently. "I appreciate what you're offering me, but I can't accept."

"Isabelle . . ."

"Please," she interrupted, "Killian, get up and sit here with me." She saw the raw look of disppointment of his features as he rose to resume his seat beside her and she smiled at him apologetically. "We're friends, you and I, and I hope we'll continue to be friends."

He looked at her for a few moments, the sting of rejection evident in his eyes. "Friends," he stated a bit peevishly. "You know, you'll wind up going back to  Boston with your hat in your hand."

Slowly shaking her head, Isabelle remained silent for a moment, but then attributed his hurtful remark to his understandable discomfort, and answered, "No. I have plans. I'll take boarders in until I find a publisher."

He remained silent for several long moments as he stoically tried to reign in his emotions. "Okay . . . that might even work," he acknowledged begrudgingly before sharply and decisively voicing a thought that had never actually occurred to him before, but represented his last feasible alternative. "Fine. If you want to stay here, that's just fine. You can marry me and I'll stay here with you." He could protect her from Cora and they could still have a life together.

Isabelle was struck by his insistence. It saddened her to realize that he loved her, wanted her so much that he was willing to mold his life to fit hers. "Killian, you're very kind, and I care for you deeply, but," she raised her eyes pleadingly to his, "my heart belongs to another."

This revelation stunned him. "Who?" he asked. Was she inventing a suitor to put him off? "In all of the months we've known each other, you've never mentioned anyone else."

"It's a bit complicated," she answered, looking at her feet.

Shaking his head, he thought back to all of the conversations they'd had. He couldn't recall that she'd ever mentioned another man with any fondness. She'd spoken endlessly of her book and of the sea captain whose story she'd written; the man who'd built the house she now refused to give up and for whom a place was set at the table each night. Remembering a conversation he'd had with Cora at her favorite restaurant just nights before, a cold realization struck him. "The man in your book...?" he mumbled in disbelief, "You think you're in love with a dead man?"

Isabelle laughed, a shy smile reaching her bright eyes as she affirmed, "I told you it was complicated." It briefly crossed her mind how this must sound, but she wasn't about to lie to him.

"You can't mean that," Killian scoffed, raising his voice more than he'd intended. "There's no future in that; it doesn't make any sense."

He hadn't really been listening very intently when Cora, sitting opposite him and on her third glass of sherry, had warbled on about her daughter-in-law's frail state of mind. He'd never thought of Isabelle as anything but very clear and self-sufficient, and there hadn't been a doubt in his heart as to where her fancy lay. He'd actually found Cora's slightly slurring ascertations mildly amusing, laughing and disregarding the incredulous notion when she'd told him that _there was something unnatural in that house; something that had Isabelle enthralled..._ Something _unnatural_ indeed! he'd thought, pouring her another generous measure.

"You're caught up in your subject," he continued, snapping back to the moment and attentively searching Isabelle's face. It didn't seem as though she was second-guessing herself, though, and he thought that she really meant what she was saying, truly believed it. What was going through her mind? Was there something he was missing? "It'll pass, love," he finally told her ever so tenderly, "Perhaps if I just give you some time…?"

"No," Isabelle smiled absently, "you don't understand, and I don't blame you." There was an undercurrent of definitiveness in her tone, and it conveyed to him that this conversation was over. Reluctantly, for the time being, he accepted it.

Tucking her chin in and avoiding his gaze, she stood and began gathering the basket and two bags holding the goods she'd procured at the store. "Come on up and have lunch," she offered pleasantly, "I'll show you our plans for turning the house upside down."

Taking a deep breath, he shook his head and gave a small bitter laugh. "No, thank you," he declined curtly, "I really should be getting back to the boat. I'll be leaving for  Boston tonight."

There was no way he could face sitting across from her and sharing a meal right now. He felt empty; there was nothing left to say, nothing that would save him from himself and the bitter pill lodged in his throat. He had to have time to wrestle with her rejection, and her reasons for that rejection.

Killian turned heavy steps toward the harbor. Isabelle's admission, that she'd fallen in love with a figment of her own imagination, a _ghost,_ overwhelmed his emotions, setting him on a raw edge. He sorely needed a drink and a dank place to sort out his thoughts. A warm breeze wafted over the salty waters of the  Atlantic and careened gently over the beach as Jones made his way to the Rabbit Hole.

After they'd awkwardly taken their leave of one another, Isabelle began the short walk up to the house alone. She'd expected Killian to beat a hasty retreat, since she'd seen the hurt in his eyes; she could well understand that he would need to contemplate her refusal in his own time and would need some space to gather himself. There was a tiny part of her feeling that she'd wronged him, somehow; an ounce of regret at having dashed his hopes and inflicted pain, but it was Daniel she loved, and it would always be Daniel, no matter what the future would bring.

The lone man standing unseen near the bench took notice of neither the pounding surf nor the photographer heading away toward the harbor. His eyes were firmly fixed on the soft, swaying figure of the dark haired beauty walking back to the home they shared together, his heart both warmed and troubled that she had openly claimed him.

** XXXXX **

The night waxed balmy and calm in stark contrast to the disquiet that had settled over Isabelle. In two days, her world would change. She had an appointment to meet with Horace Cogsworth, and once she'd signed the papers to secure a loan, she'd throw all of her energy and resources into readying the house for strangers. She had drawn up plans, alternately, with Daniel and Martha. She knew what changes would have to be made under the roof of her home, what supplies and furniture needed to be purchased. Cogsworth was ready to advertise she had rooms available and, in the course of but a few days, her dreams of becoming an author would be put on hold, providing that the rooms could be procured. Also, Lucy would have to move into the room she now shared with Daniel, meaning that the moments spent in private company would become limited.

Killians' proposal had come as a complete surprise. She'd had no idea his feelings for her ran so deeply. Of course, she really believed he wouldn't have asked her to marry him if her financial situation was different. She'd spent the better part of the day trying to convince herself that he was just trying to help her because of their friendship, but the tension in the pit of her stomach told a different story. She wished he hadn't proposed. He seemed to have taken the rejection fairly well, but she hoped it wouldn't strain their friendship. She wondered whether they'd be able to put this behind them and move on, but she hardly believed that it would be anything less than uncomfortable when – or if – she saw him again any time soon.

She hadn't seen Daniel during the long, seemingly endless day, and his absence made her long for him. He'd missed their tea time, and he hadn't materialized to help her finish planting the garden. She'd expected him to join her on the beach in the late afternoon as she watched Lucy play in the surf and gather her little treasures, but he hadn't come and she'd occupied their bench in solitude.

Sighing, she viewed her reflection in the vanity mirror. She was tired. Picking up a tortoise shell brush, she began brushing her thick, chestnut hair distractedly. Her daily jaunts to village, beach and garden showed in the healthy sanguine complexion and the reddish highlights in her hair. She'd seldom had occasion to venture out of doors in her former life as a  Boston socialite, and she smiled at the noticeable contrast between the sheltered widow she'd been a year ago to the hearty woman staring back at her now. Her face was a bit thinner and her tanned coloring contrasted with her sea-tinted eyes. She was stronger than she'd been when she'd first arrived, both in body and spirit. The work she'd done in and around her home had made her lean and fit; her relationship with the dynamic captain had invigorated her in ways she'd never dreamed possible.

Concealed in the shadows, the object of her affections stood in quiet vigil. Possessing no heart of flesh he, nevertheless, felt a rush of emotion, his love for this woman and the love she offered in return stirring him. Mesmerized, he watched her absently stroking through her long, silky tresses, lost in the thoughts that danced dreamily in her eyes. Light from the gas fixtures on the wall caught in the looking glass and cast halos about her reflection. Smiling contentedly, her face bathed in the glow of the lamplight, she appeared angelic and serene. _So beautiful,_ he thought, _in so many ways; in_ every _way_. She was all he wanted, all he could ever want. But, _wanting_ was one thing and _having_ was something else altogether. She deserved life and happiness; she deserved a man who could take care of her and share her experiences. She deserved a man she could spend a lifetime with, and he was so afraid he'd have to leave, that Death would finally come to claim him and she'd be left alone.

Her hands stilled and she shifted her eyes upward in the mirror, concentrating on the shadows behind her. She couldn't see him, but she could feel him. Smiling knowingly, she offered a breathy greeting, "Hello, Daniel."

Grinning, he came out of the shadows, the mirror betraying no hint of his presence as he approached her. "Ye're a lovely woman, Belle," he offered quietly.

A pretty blush bloomed across her delicate features, pleased that he found her so. She turned toward his voice and held her hand out, capturing his own possessively, and lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. "And you, my captain, are quite fine to look at," she returned, a shy smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

Kneeling before her, he raised her hand to his lips and planted a soft kiss on her knuckles. His expression sad, he whispered roughly, "Ye're so vera beautiful, me darlin', an ye deserve to live yer life to the fullest." He leaned back on his heels and dipped his head, shoulders hunching, hesitant to continue, struggling with the words once they'd formed on his tongue. "Ye…ye should find someone to spend it with."

Laughing lightly, she caressed his lined face, the bristles of his beard both silky and rough under her fingertips, "I _have_ found someone to spend it with," she said softly.

"Oh, Belle." He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her fiercely into a tight embrace, the back of her gown gathered into his fists. "I'm so sorry, Belle, so vera sorry…I'm no' able to share life with ye; I have no life!" he hissed, closing his eyes and burying his face in her hair.

"That's ridiculous," she murmured, "You are here, with me, now!" She gently pushed him back and cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "It's your _spirit_ that I love, the man you _are_ whether there's a _body_ to go along with it or not."

Her face was softly illuminated by the glow of lamplight, her moist lips offering an invitation he longed to answer. She combed her fingers tenderly through his hair, drawing an appreciative moan from him. His arms encircled about her, he felt the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed and painfully remembered that they were in two different worlds, and that what she was offering was impossible… wasn't it? He thought about how easily she had claimed him in front of Jones earlier that day.

"Belle, what is it you want from me?"

Sighing, she closed her eyes and rested her cheek atop his head. She could hear her own breath in the stillness of the room, her heart beating slowly and steadily, and she was very aware of the fact that his did not. Yet, to her, it was of no importance in the least; he was holding her at this moment, and he was more _real_ than the living man she'd spent her married years with. She could feel, _or imagined that she could feel,_ the texture of his skin, and she could smell the remnants of the musky scent of his aftershave, tangle her hands in the strands of his hair and let them roam downwards across his shoulders. She could lose herself in him completely. "I just want you to let me love you," she pleaded, "Stay here with me, stay with Lucy; be here for us."

Exasperated, he groaned and disentangled himself from her soft arms. Rising from the floor, he turned his back on her for a second to think, running his fingers through his hair and rubbing his brow in his inner turmoil. Then, he inhaled audibly and faced back to her legs apart and fists clenched in front of the open balcony doors. "That's just it, darlin': I'm _not_ a man any more. I'm a ghost haunting a house, rattling chains and terrifying people; I'm a monster!"

"You're not a monster!" she protested. How he could ever think so badly of himself was deeply troubling her. Surely he must have an idea of what the _real_ monsters of this world were all about, she thought, and watching him place himself in line with something as unsettling as what he was suggesting, she felt almost bereaved as she fought back the tears that were stinging her eyes. "Body or not, you're a man, an ordinary man!" she insisted.

"Belle, that's where ye're wrong!" he gasped, not knowing where to direct his stare and vent his frustration. She was conscious of his agitation by the pitch and huskiness of his voice, and she could _hear_ his rugged breath, even though she shouldn't have been able to.

"I'm not wrong," she countered in a fierce whisper, her jaw clenching. Standing, she met him in mid pace and clutched his shoulders, compelling him to look at her. "You are kind and giving; you make me believe in myself, Daniel. Everything you have, everything you are, you've shared with me!"

"How can ye say that?" he implored her, "Everything I built went to the bank when I died! Ye bought this house, even that was not mine to give ye!"

"But you let me stay."

"I couldna' drive ye out! Ye're here by yer own will."

"All right, I'm here and you aren't opposed to that," she conceded, wiping at her eyes defiantly. "We're both here, and we care for one another. What is the harm in acknowledging that?"

"The _harm_ is in makin' ye a promise I canna' keep." His eyes were almost wild, his face tight as he continued. "I don't know why me spirit haunts this place or what keeps me here; but I do know that one day I will go and no' come back."

"You're not fooling me, Daniel," Isabelle challenged. "You're afraid, and I understand that. I'm afraid, too, but I don't want to waste what time we may have together by fearing that, at some unknown time, you might have to leave this world." She wondered if he even realized that he might end up being the one to remain in this house long after she'd grown old and passed away here. Pushing back that thought to a darker corner of her mind, she pulled herself together and added, more kindly, "You need the courage to let me in."

Closing his eyes, he lowered his forehead to hers and pulled her against him. "Oh, Belle, how can I make ye understand?" There was more to being a man than just breath and a beating heart: all men had that aplenty and were found wanting. No, the measure of a man lay in his ability to protect and provide for his own. In life he had been wealthy, had owned several profitable businesses and could have given her all that her heart desired and more. All of that had been lost long before Isabelle had bought the house, and now there was nothing left of value he could give her. Nor could he protect her, because those who sought to harm her had to actually be on the property for him to deal with them. Even if he accepted the strangeness of the different levels of existence between them, he still felt inadequate. Shamefaced, he confessed, "I canna' even support ye! I canna' earn one dime to put food on yer table or clothes on yer back! I canna be a father to yer lass!

Isabelle drew back and laughed brightly, surprising him. "Of course you can," she declared. " _We_ can! Whether we have 'landlubbers gaddin' about the house' or sell the stories we write, _we_ will put food on the table and clothes on our backs, and we'll do it together." Cocking her head to one side and casting a mischievous smirk in his direction she added, "And don't tell me that you haven't already made quite an impression on Lucy."

_ Of course _ she knew of the friendship that had been forged between Lucy and himself, he thought, eyebrows quirking; she never missed a beat, and he was glad it was out, somehow.

But there was more to what she was asking, and he had no idea how to begin, as he carefully considered how best to approach the subject. "I care for Lucy, aye, and ye could be right in assuming we could manage to get by, but there's something else we've never talked about…" Isabelle lowered her eyes shyly and he could tell that she was blushing even in the wan light as he continued, "What kind of lover do ye think ye'll find in me, Isabelle? I canna feel ye in me arms. I look at yer skin and know it's soft as a dove's breast, but _touching_ you, I canna tell it from the plankin' on a ship." Lightly, he traced the contour of her cheek and watched as she shivered in response.

He knew that he was nothing like he'd been in life, his "body" unnaturally cool and still as it lacked the lifeforce of blood rushing through veins and arteries. That was, when he appeared to have a body at all. He was little more than a suggestion, a fabrication for his spirit to anchor itself to, and he doubted that would ever be enough to please a woman, to please _Isabelle_. She deserved to be pleased, and he so longed to be the one, but he was fraught with uncertainties. "There is little natural about how ye would perceive me, either."

She considered for a moment before acknowledging what he'd just said and drawing closer to him. "We're different," she began slowly, pulling herself up against him and putting her arms around his neck, "but I've never found touching you unpleasant; quite the opposite, really." She felt his tension, as she pressed her lips against his, tentatively at first, then more passionately. Her breath caught, when, after a moment of hesitation, he responded with equal ardor. Holding one another, the differences between them fell away, disappearing in the buttery glow of the lanterns to fade into the shadows in the corners of the room. She knew it was impossible, but she felt the warmth of his mouth on hers, his tongue gently probing against her own, and it felt right, it felt like this was exactly how his kiss should be. Reluctantly breaking away from him after what seemed like minutes, she searched his face intently and was satisfied to observe an amount of flustering tizziness there. "You get nothing from that?" she asked coyly, observing his astonishment, as he touched the pads of his fingers to his mouth.

"I dinna say that," he admitted softly. Needing distance, he gently pushed her a safe arms' length away to try and refocus. "It's not the physical limitations that worry me so much as the problem of stayin'. I've told ye that I'm not long for this world. Whether God or Fate has granted me all this time to linger, I know not; but sure as the sunrise, the next world _will_ come fer me an' I will have to go."

"Oh, Daniel," she whispered, tears of resignation rising and spilling silently onto her cheeks as she took his hands in her own. She felt her heart break for him over and over again. "What is it going to take for you to see that I'd rather have one day with you than a lifetime with anyone else. I love you, whatever there is of you, for as long as you are here. I will never stop loving you."

Closing his eyes, he let her love wash over him, her words tearing him apart, afraid of the devotion she promised. "Belle," he said her name like a prayer. "Why couldna' I have met ye years ago?"

"I wasn't free then," she answered simply, swiping at the tears on her face and running nose with a fleeting motion of her hand in annoyance. Closing her eyes, she sighed and laid her forehead on his shoulder. He drew her in closer and she snuggled timidly under his chin, only to find herself marveling at the inexplicable balminess of his body as he enveloped her in his arms completely. "Daniel, I love you whether you love me back or not. I want no more from you than what you're willing to give me."

Daniel stood very still for a time, afraid for the moment to end, but suddenly, the absurdity of his arguments struck him, and he began laughing: a man who had been dead five years complaining that he may not have _more time_. Every moment he'd spent in this house after his untimely demise had been a gift that he'd squandered away impotently until Belle had come to him. His year with her had given him hope, a plan to reach his son, and better companionship than he had ever known. She always greeted him with a smile, her arms and heart open to him. Her sharp mind and warm humor whetted his appetite for conversation and friendship, her beauty his forgotten desire. He had willingly embraced all she offered him, and now she was offering him her heart. All she asked in return was that he acknowledge his love for her. What a fool he'd be, indeed, to deny her what she asked.

He cupped her small face in his hands, "Oh, Belle-of-mine, what a wonder you are!" In mirth, he planted a hard and hasty kiss on her mouth. "So, ye will take what I can give ye? Vera well. I am no' flesh an' bone, but I am yers." His brown eyes softened as he gently rubbed his thumbs over her cheeks, wiping away the last of the wet traces her tears had left behind. "I love ye, Belle. I love ye with all that I am."

Isabelle laughed, exhaling, her chest heaving with relief. "Well, that didn't hurt too much, did it?" she breathed.

Shaking his head he answered, "No, love. It really didna'." Tilting his head to one side, he said half-in just, "but where to go from here? I'm afraid I canna take ye to the alter, nor do I fancy the vicar would agree to come here to wed ye to a dead man."

"So," she grinned, shifting to lean back and give him a mischievous look, "you despair of making an honest woman of me?"

"Oh, no," he said shaking his head, "ye said ye wanted whatever I am willin' to give ye, an' I will give ye a husband."

Laughing incredulously, Isabelle had no idea how he intended to do what he was taking about, but played along and accepted what he was saying. "I'll take a husband!"

He shook his head as he watched her cry and laugh at the same time. "Come," he whispered. Taking her hand, he led her into the night air of the balcony. The sky was dark, cloudless and clear as crystal, a pale half-moon overhead and a dusting of sparkling stars scattered across the velvety blackness of deep space. The moonlight reflected off of the surface of the briny ocean and copper beach below. Daniel and Isabelle stood for several moments, face to face in front of the telescope, bathed in the bluish luminosity of the wane light.

"This is no church," he began, "but the canopy is beautiful, an' we've the music of the ocean."

Gazing at his face she answered, taking in what he was getting at. "Yes… it is. This is perfect."

"We ha' no vicar to speak over us," he explained, "but I'm sure our Creator will be good enough to hear our vows." She stood still, expectant, waiting for him to begin. Where did he begin? "I'm afraid I have no worldly goods to bestow on ye," he smiled apologetically, feeling clumsy as a schoolboy.

Shrugging, she offered, "You've given me this house; and you've trusted me with your story."

"Aye, they are yours an' gladly given." _Security, a place to belong._

"And I will give you my library, my family and my chipped cup." _Family, a place to belong._

"Well, that takes care of all our material goods," he laughed softly. Taking her hands in his, he searched the blue eyes of his beloved. "Belle, I ha' never felt for any woman what I feel for ye. Ye're kind, and ye're the smartest woman I've ever met. Ye are a fierce woman to be sure, Belle-of-mine, and ye exasperate me to no end," he rambled, realizing that he was, and had to give himself a tug to continue. "Ye make me so happy, Belle, ye make me laugh like I've never had reason to! I am honored by ye, by yer love. No one has ever shared their heart with me as you have."

Shyly she breathed, "Daniel," as she looked up into his dark eyes, "You are my happiness and my heart. You are a brilliant man, and I could spend every day of my life talking to you. I love that you look after me, and that you care about Lucy and Martha. You make me feel special, and you make me feel safe. I am honored by _your_ love."

Daniel paused, replaying her words in his mind to save them there. "I promise to love ye for as long as I'm here."

"And I will love you forever," Isabelle responded.

"Aye, forever."

"Good; then kiss me now," his _wife_ demanded. She clung to his jacket, and he put his arms around her waist, drawing her up, as his mouth met her parting lips tenderly. She stood on her toes to get closer to him, and he ran his hands up her sides and past her neck to cradle her face in them warmly, thoroughly rapt in the feel of her moist caress. _Her husband_ , she thought, was kissing her, properly and thoroughly, and nothing the future threw at them could take this moment from her.

Pulling back from Isabelle's embrace, Daniel gazed at her in wonder. He could almost feel her touch, the warmth radiating from her skin; it was as if the their new bond had connected them, and he kissed her lightly on her plump lips. She would never cease to amaze him. He took her small hands in his and teasingly invited her to retire for the night, not letting go of her, deciding that he wouldn't for anything in the world let go of her anytime soon. She led him back into their bedroom with a shy smile, grinning happily when he paused to set the door ajar before following her inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Inspiration: It is You I've Loved by Dana Glover  
> My sincerest thanks and appreciation to my Beta Reader, OneMagician, for the encouragement you give me, for your excellent advise and wonderful input. I humbly admit that you've improved my work, and this chapter in particular, beautifully.


	18. The Power of Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Inspiration, Morning Scene: In Her Eyes by Josh Groban & Awake by Josh Groban

Isabelle woke to Daniel gently nuzzling the back of her neck, his scratchy-soft beard rubbing against her bare shoulder, marking her delicate skin with a pinkish tinge. Humming contentedly, she pushed back against him and he gathered her in his embrace. Half in sleep and half awake, she welcomed his weight beside her and the feeling of protection he gave her as she lay cradled against him. This room had been their private refuge since they'd spoken vows. She'd feigned a headache yesterday, and they'd spent the day entwined in one another, interrupted only twice when Martha had brought a tray up to Isabelle. Under the sun they alternated between talking and loving, and the moon saw them watching stars blend with the harbor lights reflected on the ocean. It had been a day of courting and consummation, desire and completion; a day full of memories to be cherished for a lifetime and beyond.

Songs of cheerful birds mingled with the pounding surf and the early morning movements of the household, all bidding the new bride to waken. She sighed and languidly raised her eyelids, her vision blurred by dreamy sleepiness, to the twilight invading the room. A warm spring breeze lightly swept at the curtains on the French doors, making diaphanous shadows dance on the walls and floorboards. Outside, the eastern sky teased the first ruddy hues of sunrise, but she resolutely shut her eyes against it, opting to burrow back against her husband for a few more minutes.

Today was a day for many changes and she needed a little more time before facing it.

Unaware of her resolve to slumber a bit longer, Daniel leaned over and nipped playfully at a tempting earlobe, causing delicious warmth to spread over her. Giggling, she found his hand with one of her own and whispered, "Good morning, Captain Gold."

"Good morning, Mrs. Gold," he answered playfully.

"Mmm . . . I like the way that sounds."

"Me, too."

They remained quietly cocooned in tangled sheets and downy comforter for several minutes as Isabelle lightly dozed, a contented smile playing on her lips as morning light crept further into the room through the open doors and window, spreading a buttery glow over them. Daniel lay quietly wrapped around an armful of feminine softness, listening to the gentle pattern of her breath. Her shoulder dominated his view and he stealthily moved his hand and smoothed a tangle of chestnut brown hair away from her cheek. She stirred and sighed, but offered no other interruption to his vigil.

Married.

To Isabelle.

Well, married in the only sense they could be in the plane that existed between the living and the dead. Of course, given their rather unique situation, they were going to face some challenges, to say the least. They'd have to make sense of their new life together. In a few hours, Isabelle would secure the bank loan she'd been promised and they'd begin readying the house to board strangers, a business that would occupy them endlessly from now on. Isabelle's original plan was to have Lucy move into her bedroom with her. Daniel grinned wickedly. Well, that plan may not work out after all.

Lucy: such a precocious child, and as bright and bonny as her mother. Aye, and he had come to love the wee lass as much as if she was his own. Many hours they had chatted over one thing or another, and many more had he watched over her as she played about the house and on the beach. Of course, her young mind held him with the same regard she had for any imaginary playmate, and she accepted his tendency to suddenly appear or disappear without any fuss. To become a father to her would mean she'd have to accept him as a reality, yet keep his presence a secret to her friends and fellow townsmen. He and Isabelle would have to discuss how best to accomplish that, especially with boarders under foot.

Another consideration was Martha. The headstrong and sensible housekeeper would, doubtless, have much to say on the matter. He'd not revealed himself to her in any fashion, save for opening her windows a bit in the early morning hours. She went along with the nightly table setting as an appeasement to Lucy, but he had no doubt the very levelheaded woman would brook no nonsense with the romantic notions of her young mistress. Daniel didn't know if he could materialize in front of a true skeptic; he'd had little occasion to test that. Although the unflappable maid did acknowledge what she called "funny doings" in the house, she'd never really discussed the origin of raised windows, filled kindling boxes, weeded gardens or unexplained repairs in the year she'd lived here. She was a rational and practical woman who believed in hard work and things you could lend form and substance to. He was sure she'd be shocked when Isabelle told her that the new man of the house was, in fact, the former man of the house, and she'd believe the young woman had come unhinged. On the other hand, he'd had occasion to watch her when she thought herself alone: she often talked to herself and hid from prying eyes the wistful, distant look of daydreaming as she went about her chores. Though she would, in all probability, scoff and resist the notion of her mistress taking a ghost to husband, he also suspected she'd secretly fancy the idea of a nice, disrespectable haunting.

_ "Besides," _ he mused smugly, _"she hates Killian Jones."_

Isabelle stirred beside him and stretched sinuously, turning over in his arms. Waking to his weathered brown eyes and sated smile, she blushed and ducked her head under his chin, her hair falling in a silken cascade over her face and shoulders. Laughing, he asked, "could this shy, young thing be the same vixen who shared my bed last night?"

Pulling back, she met his amused eyes with her own, a quiet mirth lacing her voice, " _our_ bed."

"Oh, yes," he agreed, " _our_ bed." Pressing her back against the flattened cotton pillow, he kissed her, grinning appreciatively at the contented sighs she made. Eagerly returning his attentions, she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer. Having forgotten the world outside of their cozy nest, they were startled by the clatter of someone turning the door knob which, thankfully, they'd thought to lock the night before. There followed several hesitant raps on the door, and the small voice of Lucy in the hallway.

"Mama? Are you awake?"

Daniel snorted as Isabelle shifted away self-consciously and swatted his hand as he teased the covers around her. "Yes, sweetheart, I'm awake."

The child's muffled response came through the door. "Martha says that breakfast is almost ready."

Stifling a giggle as Daniel began nibbling at the place where her shoulder and neck met, she managed to call out, "Thank you, darling. I'll be down soon." Repositioning herself within the circle of his arms, she gazed up at him, imprinting his mischievous look, this moment, in her memory. The warmth of his smile pushing up the contours of his face and creating small crinkles about his fathomless, dark eyes. It stuck her how earthy he was for a man of the sea.

"I suppose I need to get up now," she pouted.

He answered by kissing the palm of her hand. The weight of the morning settled on both of them now that the spell of their isolation had been broken.

They'd agreed that taking strangers into their home was their best option until they could find a publisher, but neither of them was very happy about it. Still, the alternative was unacceptable. Time was no longer on their side, and Isabelle reluctantly began pushing the covers back, preparing to rise. She knew there were things that needed to be done, and she had to start attending to them.

Daniel grabbed her upper arm and said, "not yet," a gleam in his eye. She settled back and waited expectantly. "I have somethin' for ye; somethin' I should ha' given ye a couple of nights ago." Taking her left hand in his, he gingerly slipped a small gold ring on her finger.

Gasping, she raised her hand for a closer look at it. The delicate band displayed a small heart held between two hands and crowned with a diadem. It was a bit loose around her slim finger. Looking up at Daniel tremulously, she swallowed and wiped a slow tear from her cheek. "Daniel, it's beautiful."

"It's a _claddagh_ ring. Ye wear it with the crown turned toward yer heart to show ye're married." Daniel still held her hand, admiring the ring that symbolized his love for her, and feeling a bit of satisfaction in the ring marking her as his. "It belonged to my Aunt Agatha. Wore the crown downward to show she was a single lady. She left it to me after her passin'."

"I love it," she said with a wistful smile. "Where did you have it?"

"In a trunk in the attic. I havna' been up there in a long time." He kissed her hand and continued, his eyes shining. "I remembered it las' night while ye were sleepin'. Are ye surprised?"

"Yes!" she laughed, throwing her arms around him and pulling herself up close to him. "I'll never take it off." Pulling her into his embrace, he kissed her, amazed to discover he could almost taste her sweetness and thrilling to the feel of her in his arms.

** XXXXX **

The hour after Isabelle had left to walk Lucy to school and keep her appointment with Cogsworth passed tediously for Daniel. Looking for a way to make himself useful as he waited for her, he found himself in the garden, checking the growth of the vegetables they'd planted. The neat rows of rich soil were all crowned with green sprouts clamoring for sunlight in the early summer air. He checked the little signs carefully made from the empty seed packets at the end of each row, noting sprouts from carrots, onions, cabbages and beans. Frowning, he admitted they all looked pretty much the same to him. Still, he bent over and pulled what he hoped were a few weeds that had dared to take root next to the tender shoots they intended for their table.

The banker had promised Isabelle the loan they needed to ready the house, but Daniel felt anxious all the same. Her funds were all but depleted at this point, as were Martha's. He thought back to her mother-in-law's visit, the woman practically salivating at the prospect of Isabelle's financial ruin. Her scheme to use his Belle as an investment to secure a contract was obscene, and he'd wanted to ring her neck on the spot. He might have done just that had Isabelle not forbidden it. Well, he wouldn't allow Cora Mills to get within a hundred feet of her again, and he hoped that he'd intimidated the woman away from his Belle forever. He'd have to watch and see that the old witch didn't come back and upset his wife.

_ His wife.  _

Daniel grinned broadly at the thought. The fact that this clever and beautiful woman had turned Jones down and chosen him over that beguiling self-centered beau filled him with an immeasurable amount of self-satisfaction. Isabelle had joined herself to the ghost of a man that had nothing to give her; no worldly goods, and not even a body. He'd never travel with her or give her children, and they'd never grow old together. Why she'd decided to go down this path with him, he'd never quite understand. To him, it was nothing short of a miracle that she loved him, but it was completely insane that she would want to give him the best years of her life and define their relationship so clearly.

Daniel found himself glancing up every few minutes, his eyes trained on the road coming in from the small town. Trees that had blossomed in the previous weeks had dropped their colorful blooms and now lush, green leaves crowded into the canopy, obscuring most of his view. Mentally calculating the time it would take for her to meet with the banker and return, he knew he still had time to wait, so he concentrated on the task at hand, hoping he didn't inadvertently pull the sprouting vegetables and cultivate the weeds. " _Landlubber's work_ , _"_ he scowled. The soil around the plantings was still loose so the spindly plants come away easily with a bit of tugging and he threw the errant intruders around the outer perimeter of the little garden.

"Daniel!"

So engrossed had he become that he had neither seen nor heard Isabelle come up the road. Running toward him, skirts whirling about her as her little feet pounded the grassy upsweep to the plot where he stood, Isabelle arrived and breathlessly threw herself into his waiting arms. She was sweating and hungrily gasping for air, hair fluttering in tangles about her face; her hat had been discarded somewhere between here and town. Concerned, he held her at arm's length to look at her, disturbed as he saw tears coursing down her reddened cheeks.

"You didn't get the loan," he stated flatly.

Raising tearful, cerulean eyes to his, she panted for a few breaths and started laughing. She looked wild and hysterical, and Daniel tightened his grip on her elbows, lending her strength through what must be her moment of undoing.

"No," she pulled back and raised two envelopes she had clutched in her hand, the tops torn raggedly open. "I got a letter!"

Cocking his head to the side, he gave her a questioning look before carefully taking the envelopes she offered. One was from her lawyer, Lawrence Shelton, and the other from Hopper and Sbarge Publishing, post-dated only a few days ago. He removed the letter from the publisher and began reading aloud.

_ Dear Mrs. Mills,  _

_ I apologize for the length of time it has taken to inform you of our decision regarding your story. To be honest, your work caused quite a stir at Hopper and Sbarge. As you know, our company has a reputation for publishing articles on news events, manuals and magazines for male readers. We've never published work submitted by a woman before your submission, and our Board of Directors has stood firm against considering your book, even upon my earnest recommendation.  _

_ I assure you, I approached each member on your behalf for several weeks, but to no avail. Most wouldn't even agree to read a portion of the manuscript, and others stated they had no interest in reading "the driveling sentiments of a romantic female." Mr. Sbarge, my partner, then insisted that I return your manuscript with my sincere regrets that we were not able to publish your work.  _

_ It was then that I remembered your insistence, Mrs. Mills, and the very pressing way you engaged me in listening to your biography. With that in mind, I interrupted the monthly board meeting, sat in the midst of a half dozen wizened, staunch board members and began reading your work to them aloud. It was quite enlightening.  _

_ I am happy to say that Hopper and Sbarge Publishing will be honored to publish your book, 'The Dark One's Dagger'.  _

Astonished, Daniel lowered the letter and looked at Isabelle, who was smiling and trembling, quiet and still before him. Relief washed over him and he grabbed her up into his arms, crushing her against him. They'd done it! His story would be published, due to the unquenchable spirit of this tiny woman, _his wife._ Still holding her against him, he cupped her face in his left hand, turning it upward for a kiss that was as possessive as it was celebratory. He could almost taste her salty tears mingling with the sweetness he knew she'd taste of: _roses and the sea_.

Lost in each other, they pressed together for several minutes until Isabelle pulled back and said breathlessly, "there's more!"

Taking the letter from his hand, she quickly found the place where he'd left off.

_ We have contacted your solicitor, Mr. Lawrence  _ _ Shelton _ _ , as per your instructions. He has deposited a check in the amount of $300 into your account, an advance for future royalties. Of course, you will have to come to  _ _ Boston _ _ and sign additional contracts in the near future. We are also considering publishing a series of news related articles written from a woman's perspective, and may contact you sometime soon about submitting articles for one of our magazines.  _

_ Thank you for your patience, Mrs. Mills. It has been a pleasure meeting you and I look forward to building a lasting and profitable business relationship with you.  _

_ Sincerely, A. Ferris Hopper, Publisher _

Beaming at her proudly, Daniel quietly said, "Belle, ye're an author!"

"Yes, Daniel," she agreed. "I couldn't have done this without you. Thank you."

"Ye said we'd manage together, an' we did." His story, her talent, their combined effort had accomplished more than he would have ever dreamed possible. He'd hoped they could do this, but actually having it happen was astonishing and humbling. Gently, he stepped up close to her again they folded into one another in a quiet embrace, her face resting against his chest contentedly. He placed a light kiss on the top of her head, and they stood together in a field growing food for their own family, holding a white envelope that contained the bright and hopeful future they'd won for themselves.

** XXXXX **

So many things could change in a week. The money Hopper had advanced Isabelle had gone far in paying off most of her debts, including the money she owed Martha. The housekeeper had assured her that it was unnecessary to reimburse her right away, but the younger woman wouldn't take no for an answer. They celebrated with a veritable Sunday feast on the night she'd received the letter: roast beef in a thick, brown gravy with thick slices of potato and carrots, green beans, sliced tomatoes and bowls of cherry cobbler with whipped cream.

Daniel sat at the head of the table, his empty place setting in front of him, enjoying the lighthearted chatter of the three females at the other end. Lucy little understood the financial strains of the adults, but the school year had ended and she was delighted that she'd be able to play unfettered on the beach. Martha expressed her relief that they'd been saved from the awful fate of boarding strangers in their home with all of the extra work that would have entailed. She promised Lucy a special trip to the mercantile in the morning to pick out some light fabrics for summer dresses and a new swimming costume now that she'd have time to do some sewing.

Isabelle felt she could hardly keep a single train of thought in her head, and her mind flitted from contracts to future articles to her and Daniel having their room all to themselves. In between her banter with Martha and Lucy, she stole blushing glances at her love sitting quietly across from her. He looked young tonight, the stress lines usually fixed around his eyes gone, and his smile held a promise of the celebration to come when they'd find themselves alone.

In the following days, she received additional letters from Hopper and  Shelton . The two men had worked out an agreement between them, as Isabelle had given the trusted solicitor the authority to act on her behalf in most of the matters dealing with the publishing house.  Shelton and his wife, Caroline, were guests overnight on Thursday when he brought a case full of contracts and documents for her to sign, leaving with her a copy of everything. This also came with an additional check for one-hundred dollars. Isabelle spent a pleasant evening entertaining the older couple who were, in many ways, much like her parents. Caroline was charmed by the house with its quaint furnishings, and she and  Shelton discussed the idea of moving to the little town in a year or two when he retired.

On Friday morning, she deposited the check and picked up her mother's necklace. Cogsworth was delighted with her new prospects and asked that he be allowed to buy her a soda at  Clark 's Pharmacy in celebration. His chest puffed out as he proudly escorted her down the sidewalk with her small hand tucked in the crook of his elbow. Tipping his hat to passersby, he announced to several of the good citizens that Mrs. Mills was now a bonefied author, a real celebrity right in the midst of their fair town. Congratulations were offered by all to the sweet and likable widow, and before long the entire town was abuzz with her good news. While drinking a cola with Cogsworth, Felton Glass pulled a chair up to their table and asked if she would allow him to write an article about her for The Mirror. Laughing, Isabelle answered his questions and told him a bit about her book, promising to check with Mr. Hopper for permission for an excerpt of the book to be released for the local paper.

On her way home, she stopped by the post office. Waiting for her was a single letter, her address written across the front in an unfamiliar hand. Reading the post mark, her heart skipped a beat and she nervously tugged her bottom lip between her teeth. The feeling in her stomach was a cross between excitement and dread. Slipping the letter into her familiar basket between the carrots for dinner and the lace for Lucy's dress, she hurried up the path toward home.

** XXXXX **

Daniel sat on a worn wooden bench near the shoreline watching Lucy play in the sand nearby. Martha had allowed the girl to come down with a promise that she not set one foot in the water until her mother came home. The captain had kept watch over _the wee lass_ for a good half hour, her childish antics amusing and charming him. She'd sung a repertoire of songs she'd learned in school, filling his ears with A-B-C's and twinkling stars and itsy-bitsy spiders, all accompanied by hand motions and curtsies. Next, she had fed the greedy gulls two pieces of toast she'd stashed in her apron pocket from breakfast, running up and down the beach front, the little dents her small, bare feet left behind sluggishly washed away by a slow, lazy tide. She laughed at the fickle birds, all clamoring for her attention for as long as she fed them and then turning away from her when she proved to be empty handed.

Daniel enjoyed spending time with this fair little girl, so much her mother's daughter. Watching her play on the beach brought him back many years to the small boy he'd left behind. Baelfire was four-and-twenty years now, just a bit younger than Isabelle. It was so difficult to picture him a man full grown; in his mind's eye he always saw him as a wee lad, all grins and questions and movement, a powder keg of boundless energy scampering about on short legs. Lucy's large brown eyes, so like his Bae's, full of curiosity and life, tugged at his heart, striking a raw cord deep in his soul.

Looking to the east over the tranquil ocean, he imagined he could see the distant shore of his homeland; a rugged, rocky place where a young man walked along the beach, perhaps with a lad of his own. He wondered what the man would look like. Bae had his mother's features and coloring, his body a bit stockier than his father's thin angles. His boy's hair had been darker and courser than his own, but he'd had his papa's soulful brown eyes. How often had those eyes looked westward across the sea, wondering when his papa would come to him and claim him; asking himself if his father ever thought about him, loved him?

Tears spilled over his eyes and down his rough cheeks as he drew a ragged breath. He'd spent a lifetime building a legacy for his son, only to die and lose all of it like chaff in the wind. He'd always told himself that he would send for the boy when the time was right, when all was ready; but the truth was, he'd been afraid to simply walk into his wife's prestigious circle and claim his rights as a father. He'd told himself that Bae was alright because he was at school; that his mother's wealth protected and nurtured him, was more suitable for him than his own precarious life at sea; that his letters were sufficient to tell him all that was in his heart. He'd told himself that the legacy he was creating would make up for the lost time, the absence of his influence in Bae's youth. Now, he wished he'd have given up all of his work and wealth to have stayed near his son; taught him how to be a man and hold steadfast, rather than running and licking his wounds in work and distance. For all of his fierce reputation, he was a coward who'd let his son go, only to spend a lifetime trying to get him back through lesser means. His boy had grown up without a father, and he had grown old without a son. How Daniel longed to hear childish songs sung by a barefoot boy on the shoreline, pestered by hungry gulls, his hair dancing in a balmy ocean breeze.

Releasing a ragged sob, he closed his eyes and wiped the tears away with the heels of his hands, and then leaning forward, lay his face in them, his elbows resting on his knees. _Oh, God, please bless me beautiful boy, an' let him know how vera much I love him._

He felt a small hand stubbornly pulling his little finger, forcing his hand away from his face. Opening one eye, he peered into Lucy's somber, brown eyes. He offered her a sympathetic smile as she stared at him, watching one lone tear trail down his cheek and catching in his beard. "Are you sad?"

Sighing, he nodded. "Aye, a little."

"Why?"

The little girl leaned against his knee, waiting expectantly. "I miss me boy," he admitted honestly.

A slight frown creased her features, her mind stirring as she thought about his answer. She had never considered the captain him outside of his interactions with her Mama. For the first time, it occurred to her that he was connected to a larger world than their house. He was a man, and he had a boy. "Where is he?" she asked curiously.

"He's far away from here, I'm afraid."

"Will he come here?"

"No, I don' think so," he said roughly. "I'm sure I'll never see him again."

For a moment, she felt a sting of jealousy, thinking that her father, whom she barely remembered, would not have missed her so much. The captain looked sad that he couldn't be with his little boy, and her inexperienced heart suddenly clenched with dread. "Are you going to go and find him?"

He shook his head. "No, love; I'll not be going anywhere."

Lucy felt relief, but didn't really know why. She'd moved beyond merely accepting the captain's dependable presence in her life. Now, she craved his attention, valued his approval. He watched over her and made her feel safe, cherished. She guessed that he would have made his son feel the same way. "I'll stay with you," she offered.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Daniel answered softly, "aye, I'd like that."

Suddenly, Lucy threw herself into his chest, her small arms circling him as far as she could reach. Shaking, he drew her into himself, pouring out on her all of the love he'd felt for his Bae, taking her into his heart as well.

No further words passed between them, and Daniel accepted the healing balm of the child's embrace. For a moment, they were connected; a father without a child and a child without a father. She pulled back from him shyly and, pursing her lips, she planted a small kiss on his cheek. Struck to his core, he smiled and released her, the moment gone but not forgotten as she grabbed up a stick and began writing her name in the sand away from the water's relentless pull.

He could feel Isabelle's presence and, turning, saw her standing serenely just up the beach where the trees near the road ended. She had been watching as her child and her love had bonded over his regrets. Without asking, she knew where his thoughts had strayed and a tear for his loss slowly coursed down her cheek. The moment had passed, so she closed the distance between them, coming to stand beside him on the bench. He reached out for her, and then enclosed her small hand in his long fingers when she accepted him.

Looking up and noticing her mother had returned, Lucy quickly threw the stick on the ground and ran excitedly up to greet her. "Mama, Martha said I could go swimming when you get home!"

"Well then, I suppose you'd better go up to the house and change into your swimming costume," Isabelle answered warmly. Reaching into her basket, she removed the letter and handed the basket to Lucy. "Here, sweetheart, take this up to Martha for me." Taking the cumbersome item in both hands, the little girl happily scurried away to the house.

Gingerly, Isabelle took a seat next to Daniel. His thoughts were bound in a son across the ocean. His eyes still held the sorrow he'd succumbed to minutes earlier, and she squeezed his hand in solace. In her other hand she held many answers but, not knowing what those answers were, was hesitant to reveal it. It pained her to see Daniel mourning his loss, but it also frightened her to think that his resolution might also be his undoing. _Be brave_ , she told herself. "Daniel?"

He turned toward her voice. Her eyes were trained on an envelope she had gripped in her lap. Chewing her lower lip nervously, she cast a reluctant, side-long glance at him. Taking a deep breath, she released it with resolve and began softly. "Do you remember when we worked on the manuscripts a few weeks ago? I made extra copies with your help."

"Aye, I remember."

Squaring herself, she raised her eyes to gaze firmly into his, uncertainty and hope shining from their depths as she pressed the letter into his hand. "I sent oneto your son."

Incredulous, he looked at the white, linen envelope knowing instinctively what it was. It was addressed to Mrs. Isabelle Mills,  Moncton Road ,  Storybrooke ,  Maine , the lettering carefully penned in elegant black script. At the top, in smaller print, was the name B.R. Gold, Sub-Lieutenant, Royal Navy,  Scotland .

_ His son's name and rank. _

His hands trembling, he looked back to Isabelle for an explanation.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she explained. "I didn't know if he'd write back, and I didn't want to give you false hope."

Accepting her answer, he nodded and stared long and hard at the envelope, holding it as if it was sacred. Isabelle hadn't waited until the book was published; she'd sent his son the manuscript they'd worked on together. In his own scrawling print he'd composed the words describing his feelings about Milah divorcing him and taking his beloved boy away; and then, later, his hope of reuniting with the lad. Looking at his wife, he realized that she had specifically given him those portions to copy. Now, he knew she'd intended Bae not just read about his father's love for him, but that he'd see it in Daniels' own hand, as if pages had been torn from his personal journal to be included in the work itself.

Nervously, he ripped open the side of the envelope and carefully removed the folded letter from inside. The paper was plain and course, the kind he'd expect to find near the docks at any port. He shook slightly as he turned it over in his hands. He'd waited for this moment for a lifetime it seemed, and now that it was here, he was plagued with doubts. He had no idea what Bae would think of his absent father, of the life he'd lived and the dreams he had. He thought Daniel had abandoned him, pursued a life without any thought of his son, and had committed suicide without so much as leaving a word of farewell, just an estate encumbered in debt and an unclaimed portrait.

Isabelle reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze of encouragement, shifting to stand and leave him to his letter in privacy. Tightening his grip on her hand, he looked at her, his gaze pleading with her to stay. She settled back down, laying her head on his shoulder, offering him support with her nearness. He unfolded the letter, taking a moment to let his eyes roam over Bae's neat, even script before he began reading.

_ Dear Mrs. Mills,  _

_ I've received the copy of the biography you've written about my father. It was very kind of you to send this to me. I hope you are able to get it published soon.  _

_ As you know, he left when I was a young boy, and I grew up knowing him only from the letters he sent me. My father was a very private man, but he did tell me about his many voyages at sea. Reading your book was like reading those letters all over again. His stories made me feel like I was there with him. They're the reason I joined the Navy, I suppose, a way of being closer to him.  _

_ He also told me about the business projects he'd begun, but I never realized what an accomplished and respected man he was. I had intended to join him once my terms of commission were up, but he died before I could tell him that. I wish I could have seen his operations. He was a very clever man and I would have been proud to work along side him. I wish I could have seen him, gotten to know him. Your book has given me much insight into his character and I've come to know him better through your words.  _

_ I always knew that my father loved me, but it was good to see him affirm this in his own writings. My mother spent much time trying to refute his love for me, but I knew it all the same. I am proud to be Daniel Gold's son. It was very kind of you to enlighten me as to the circumstances of his death. I could never reconcile the brave man who wrote to me with a man who would give up and take his own life. I'm glad you bought his house and found his journals; I'm glad you wrote his story and wish you every success in publishing it.  _

_ Thank you again for your kindness.  _

_ Sincerely, Baelfire Rory Gold _

Daniel read the letter twice more before slowly refolding it and sliding it lovingly back into the envelope. He hadn't quite known what to expect when he finally made this connection to his son, and an unexpected and welcomed peace settled over him. Bae had his words in his hands, the story of his life his only legacy to leave to him and to his generations to come. "You sent him the manuscript I helped ye with?"

"Yes."

"And ye didn't tell me about it?"

"No."

"That was good, good," he conceded. "I'd ha' been beside meself waitin' for an answer." She nodded in understanding, her fingers laced comfortingly through his. "How did ye know where to send it?"

"Mr. Cogsworth," she laughed lightly. "He had the address and gave it to me."

"Aye, that was vera clever," Daniel conceded, smirking. "Next time he drives ye home, I'll not release the brakes on his car."

Mirroring his wicked grin, Isabelle leaned over and kissed his cheek. The sat together, the song of the sea and the cries of the gulls lulling the quite beauty and the reflective captain as they came to terms with letter. All in all, the few short sentences seemed an uneventful finale to Daniel's five years of after-life and to the turmoil he'd had in wanting to reconnect with his son. Peace settled over him with the realization that Bae had known all along that he loved him. He still regretted giving up the chance to be a father to his son, the opportunity to ever see him again lost forever. Still, he had grown into a fine, responsible man ready to live his own life. Daniel was proud. If he asked her, Belle would continue to write to him, would receive word from him from time to time. He'd know his son's travels and adventures; when he married, had children. Perhaps she'd ask him for a photograph so he could see his face, see the faces of his generations. The prospects for the future seemed as bright as they could get under the circumstances.

An excited squeal from behind them interrupted their contemplations as Lucy thundered onto the beach clad in a blue, cotton swimming suit and carrying a large, white towel. Draping the towel over the back of the bench, she began tugging at her mother's hand asking her to play with her. Isabelle cast as questioning glance in Daniel's direction, and he answered with a doleful smile and a nod of his head.

He let his thoughts settle as he watched them together on the beach. Isabelle had quickly removed her boots and stockings, leaving them in Daniel's safekeeping on the bench. She pulled the back of her skirt up between her legs, looping the hem into her waistline. Her pretty bare legs were a pleasant distraction as she frolicked with her daughter. The little girl ran into the warm, salty water up to her knees, laughing as the tide surged, splashed over her hips and receded back into the ocean. She scampered back and forth between the surf and her mother, Isabelle catching her hands and twirling her in the sand.

Daniel thought about his new existence. Being Isabelle's husband meant being Lucy's father. Of course, their marriage was anything but conventional, and his role in Lucy's life was not as substantial as he'd like to be. Whatever it was, though, he meant to be good to the girl, to protect and love her. He could be a father to her in a way he'd never been to his own son. In that moment, he vowed to never leave her without the love of a parent.

** XXXXX **

The sultry night had grown old and dark when Cora Mills poured herself another double brandy into an expensive cut crystal glass. Swirling the brown liquid distractedly, she took a seat, alone, in the parlor. Taking a sip of the fine, aged liquor, she let it rest on her tongue a moment before swallowing. The room was quiet, amplifying the sound of the crackling flames in the hearth and the soft rustling of her silk skirt. The light of the fire was the only light in the room, but it was enough. The gloomy atmosphere suited her.

Jones had just left. There was a time when she wouldn't have allowed him to come to her house, but things had changed. Things had changed drastically. When he'd come back to  Boston a couple of weeks ago, he'd told her that Isabelle had turned down his marriage proposal. He'd tried to hide the smug glint in his eye when he'd told her that she'd formulated a plan to stay in Storybrooke, in her little house. He hadn't _said_ that he was glad the girl wouldn't be playing into Cora's schemes, but then he didn't have to. She was well aware the fool was smitten by her daughter-in-law; it was the reason she was willing to end her association with him once their deal was done. What she hadn't expected was Jones' brooding melancholy over being rejected. After all, he was to be well compensated for any heartache he'd have to live with. Him pouting like some lovesick youth instead of helping her come up with a way to salvage what amounted to a disaster made the entire communication between them tiresome.

Tonight, she'd been dealt a double blow. Killian's friend, Hopper, had reneged on their deal and pushed to have Isabelle's little book published. Apparently, the girl had impressed him so much that his company was willing to venture into uncharted waters, as it were, and take a chance on an unknown female author. Mr. Jones had barely concealed a little smile of pride when making that announcement. No doubt, he thought her cleverness was admirable. Helping himself to his employer's liquor cabinet, he regaled her with the praises the publisher had heaped on Isabelle and her talents, adding his own list of Isabelle's virtues as the alcohol loosened his tongue. Fearing he'd lose himself too far into the bottle he'd climbed into, Cora dismissed Jones for the night and settled in to nurse her wounds without the distraction of a besotted fool.

She hadn't needed Jones proclamations of Isabelle's success to ruin her day. She'd already read disaster in the society pages in the newspaper that morning: Leopold Blanchard had announced his upcoming marriage to a sweet faced young woman twenty years his junior.

Taking another sip from her glass, she willed the liquor to calm her nerves.

All hope of repositioning herself and recapturing and embellishing past attainments in this lifetime was gone now, lying in ashes at her feet, and it was Isabelle's fault. All of her delays and refusal to play along with Cora's plans had given Blanchard time to find the love Cora had pushed him to find in the arms of a rivals' daughter. Years of careful planning and maneuvering were ruined because the foolish, stupid girl refused to work in her own best interests. The little chit had stood in her decrepit little parlor sneering at her, believing her only intent was in making money, but money had never been her motivation. It was merely a means to an end, and that end was _power_. Cora was more than willing to pay any price to have it, to reign supremely in an empire of her own making.

Furious, Cora sprang from the chair and stood, shaking with pent up rage. Focusing all of her anger on the glass in her hand, she released a ferocious scream and threw it violently into the hearth, shards of broken glass and drops of vaporous liquor exploding in the flames. How dare the little wench go against her! She wouldn't stand for it.

Of course, Isabelle hadn't quite managed to thwart Cora's plans all on her own. The apparition protecting her, her "Captain Gold" she'd called him… she still wasn't sure whether he was real or just a mirage pressing awkwardly down on her already battered sanity. He could well be an infringing fabrication of her over-active imagination, but the question wasn't really so much whether she believed that he was existent or not – it was far more important that Isabelle did.

Whether real, or merely the concoction of an impaired sense of judgment on her daughter-in-law's behalf, it was Gold's story that had provided Isabelle the means of maintaining her independence. Her son's widow had her charms, to be certain, and the ghost who haunted her house – or didn't – obviously wanted her to himself – or so she believed. But if he did actually exist, did he really want Isabelle enough to pit himself against Cora?

Well, if he did, he'd pitted himself against the wrong woman. She didn't know yet how she'd go about it, but she'd destroy Isabelle; she'd destroy her dream, her silly little notion of quaint happiness in that house in the sticks, her hopes, and her ghost right along with it, if it was the last thing she ever did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my Beta reader, OneMagician. Your talent for editing, gift for words and endless encouragment are gifts too precious for me to find the right words to express my thanks for. I couldn't do this without you.


	19. Interlude:  Sense and Sensibilities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration: Down by the Sally Garden by Peter Hollens

Martha Potts was a very sensible woman. She ran her employer's household with organization and efficiency, and when problems arose, she tackled them head-on, refusing to let anyone or anything interfere with her tried and true routine. She was a practical and competent woman with a warm heart and a genuine desire to serve others well. The capable housekeeper had never been prone to outbursts or sentimental sniveling in her communications, and she maintained a certain amount of dignity in her interactions with everyone. The fact that she had a commanding presence and that issuing orders with the expectation they'd be carried out never seemed odd to anyone, and those on the receiving end of said orders simply complied as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. She was a woman who could read people well, viewed the world in black and white terms and had no patience whatsoever for nonsense. And she certainly never, ever saw ghosts.

At just after seven in the morning, Lucy tumbled into the kitchen, the scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls drawing her in. Her eyes widened greedily at the sight of a dozen sticky rolls stacked high on a blue willow ware plate on the kitchen table. Martha shooed her away from temptation by tasking her with putting away the kneading bowl she had just washed and dried and began wiping flour from the table.

"Lucy, dear, go up and tell your mother that breakfast will be on the table in a few minutes."

The girl placed the bowl down with a heavy thud in the lower cabinet while she replied, "They already told me they'd be down soon. Can I have chocolate milk, please?"

Martha's breath hitched, her washcloth suspended over the table. "What did you say?"

" _May_ I have chocolate milk, please?"

"No. . . yes, of course. . ." she sputtered. "Did you say _they_ will be down?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What do you mean by _they_?" she asked quietly.

Shrugging, Lucy answered nonchalantly, "Mama and the captain."

The housekeeper stood perfectly still, a small smile threatening the corners of her mouth. Nodding quietly, she reached into the cupboard and pulled out several cups, saucers and a small clear glass. Filling the glass with the requested chocolate milk, she set it in front of Lucy as she waited impatiently for the rest of the family to join her in devouring the sweet cinnamon rolls. The cups and saucers she arranged around the kitchen table and, retrieving the tea pot, she filled the cups with steaming, fragrant morning tea.

XXXXXXXXX

The eldest of seven children, Martha was the first generation of Irish parents to be born in the 'new world.' They were proud of their hard working, peasant heritage, and their first born had been expected to earn a wage at the age of ten, giving the bulk of it to her parents to help support their sizable family. Being thus obliged, she went to work in a sewing factory during the week, and took in laundry on the weekends. Three years later, she left her parents home and went to work as a domestic for a large estate, quickly moving up the stairs and up the ranks to head maid in just under two years. At the age of sixteen, she heard that the beloved wife of a shipping magnate had fallen ill and needed an experienced housekeeper who could also care for their young daughter. It never occurred to her that she wouldn't get the job.

A rather dour and elderly housemaid had answered the door when she inquired about the position, ushering the teenager into an opulent and brightly lit parlor. Waiting for her prospective employer to arrive, she'd sat in a beautiful Queen Anne chair, gloves peeled off and laid smartly on her lap. Looking about, she admired the rich, brocade furniture and satin pillows, the airy window coverings, and the ornate, crystal chandelier hung over expensive, Persian rugs. Beautiful paintings adorned the walls and several vases with slightly wilting flowers were placed on unpolished tables. Scattered among the fine furnishings were small, childish ornaments and toys, as if the things crafted by little hands were as valued as the expensive baubles decorating the parlor. The room was elegant and airy, but her keen eye also noticed how dust had settled in a fine layer on the surfaces of tables and bric-a-brac; that the plants were beginning to droop with neglect; how the floors were dingy and the room smelled slightly stale for lack of a good cleaning.

A small sigh drew her attention to a heavy, blue curtain to her right. Cocking her ear that direction, she was sure she heard a sniffle, and her eye was rewarded with a bit of movement from behind the blue tinted fabric. Rising, she walked softly to the curtain and gently pulled it aside, discovering a window seat littered with books and small toys, and in the midst of it, a young girl with untamed chestnut curls. She was wearing a fashionable dress of pink gingham, and in her arms she cradled a china faced doll with brown, curly hair and wearing a lacy frock. Smiling sweetly, Martha offered the small child a gentle, "hello."

Looking up with tearful, blue eyes much too large for her face, the waifish girl snuffled, "hello," back at her. Tucking a lock of hair behind the child's ear, Martha cupped her small face in her calloused hand. "Well now, what can the matter be?" she asked.

The girl watched her warily for a moment. "It's Ginger," she answered in a small voice. "She's sick."

"Is that your baby's name?" Martha asked. The girl nodded her head, chewing her lip in worry. "I see," she said, sweeping back the books and toys. She took a tenable seat beside the tiny child, resting her arm behind her. "What seems to be the trouble?"

Blue eyes stared up at her. "Her head hurts and she can't eat."

"Oh, my," the teenager commiserated. "Have you tried feeding her tea and toast?"

"Uh, huh. But sometimes she's too tired to eat and she just wants to lay down with a cloth on her head."

"Does that make her feel better?"

"No," the child whispered sadly. "Sometimes she sleeps for a long time, and she doesn't want to play with me."

"Oh," Martha answered, petting the child's soft curls. "I'm sure she would love to play with you; she's just too tired." Leaning over, she whispered conspiratorially, "but, after she rests, she's probably very glad to see you."

The child's eyes widened as she thought about this, but she answered sadly, "Yes, I suppose she is."

Looking around the enclosed area, it was easy to see what occupations the little girl favored. A small, ceramic tea set consisting of a teapot, two cups and saucers with a rose pattern were set next to a small pillow and blanket for her doll. A white, stuffed cat was pushed to the side, as well as a collection of pretty doll dresses. Surrounding the toys were perhaps two dozen books, some illustrated children's stories, while others were picture books featuring far away lands and animals. There were a few collections of poetry, obviously meant for more learned readers, and she surmised these must be books favored by her parents but beloved by the child to whom they read them. Taking a cue from these scattered tomes, Martha suggested, "you know, we could read a story. I'm sure it will make Ginger feel better."

"I know it would," the child said eagerly. Scooting aside, she made room for the pretty teenager. As Martha settled in next to her, the little girl grabbed an illustrated collection of fairy tales and handed it to her.

Tucking in closely to the small body next to her, Martha opened the book and selected a story. Taking a moment to admire the bright picture of a dark haired maid receiving a red rose from a man with fierce features, she began, "once upon a time, a pretty maid lived in a village with her father, a poor merchant whose ship had finally come in."

A half–hour passed while they lost themselves in the story and illustrations: the beauty learned to love the man inside of the beast, and the beast learned to love the woman more than his possessions. Martha's patient voice blended with the child's lively questions, the two of them companionable in the window seat. They continued to chat after the story concluded while Martha stacked the books along the edges of the window seat and smoothed back the curtain that usually hid the little nook from prying eyes. Standing and turning toward the room, she caught sight of Maurice French idling in the doorway where he had been watching the young woman as she read to his lonely daughter. For the first time in weeks, he'd seen the girl smile, saw the easy affection the older girl had for her. He noted the casual way this Martha Potts straightened the area, incorporating his daughter into the activity with natural ease. He hired her on the spot.

In no time at all, Martha had organized the household and arranged Isabelle's tutoring and activities. The young woman had the house gleaming, the servants on schedules and the family well in hand. In the evenings, Isabelle dined with her parents, but her other meals she took with her maid. As Madeline French's condition worsened, the girl's care fell to her more often. Martha fed the child's innate curiosity with books, and was her companion when traveling around the city to museums, exhibits, lectures and shows. After Madeline's passing, Martha taught her how to manage her father's household and receive guests and clients as lady of the house.

When Isabelle married, she'd gone with her as her ladies' maid. It was as good as following her into the lion's den. In her new position, she was privy to the confidences and gossip of the other servants in the household. It wasn't long before she understood Gerald Mills true motivations for marrying the naïve girl, and Martha was there to receive her tears and disappointment when she'd realized her own husband had never loved her. The ensuing years had been spent in assisting Isabelle in navigating the labyrinth of intrigue in a ruthless family. The only bright place in a decade of suppression had been Lucy.

Although Isabelle was usually as hale and hearty as any other young woman, she'd had a difficult pregnancy due to a heart murmur. She had no family left after her father had passed away, and the Mills relegated her to solitude so as to not interfere with the social engagements that fueled their endeavors. Martha was the only person she'd had to keep her company during the many weeks of confinement and bed rest she'd endured to bring Lucy into the world. When the time came, the faithful maid had assisted with the birth, and she had been the first one to hold the tiny, fragile girl in her arms.

As Lucy grew, Martha saw so much of Isabelle's spirit in her: curious, kind-hearted and generous. It was as natural to help in the rearing of the little girl as it had been in raising the mother. The maid had never had time to contemplate having a family of her own, but she loved Isabelle and Lucy with the fierce protectiveness she'd have bestowed on her own sisters or daughters, if she'd had them. The death of Gerald Mills had made a widow of an unloved wife, granting Isabelle an unexpected chance for freedom. Martha knew that it was only a matter of time before Cora Mills found a way to use daughter-in-law in some plot to further her own ambitions, so she'd urged her to find a way to be on her own. It had taken some time and a great deal of effort to separate themselves from the  Boston industrialists, but they'd done it.

The year they'd been in the Storybrooke house had been very different from what Martha had imagined when they'd come here. Isabelle had been raised to be a lady of wealth, and had been kept rather restricted in the Mill's household; she'd expected her delicate mistress to be out of her element with so little to sustain her. Instead, the young widow had rolled up her sleeves and cheerfully labored to make a home here. This house seemed to invigorate her girl, to inspire her in ways Martha had never dreamed possible. In fact, it sometimes appeared there was an energy emanating from the house that connected to the young woman; one that had woken her to all of her own potential. That was a silly notion, to be sure, but she felt it all the same.

From the very beginning, Martha felt as if this place had a life of its own. During the work of cleaning and readying the house for their move in, she'd often had the eerie sensation of being watched. Of course, that was pure nonsense, probably brought on by the foolish tales of haunting Mrs. Lucas had regaled them with in the days before. Still, she would often find herself turning to look behind her when she thought someone had entered the room, only to find no one there.

Feelings of being watched were unnerving, but the strange things that continued to happen after they moved in made her question her stability. There were small things at first, hardly noticeable. She'd discover something missing, often wasting time searching for the lost item, only to discover it to be in the first place she had looked. Several times she thought she'd left soapy water in the washtub and returned to fine clean, warm rinse water waiting on her. Logs would appear in waning fires; dirty vegetables from the garden were suddenly clean, cut and awaiting the cook pot; and in the garden itself, weeds that had caught her eye on one day were miraculously plucked and discarded the next. Most disconcerting, however, were the windows in her bedroom. Every night without fail, she closed and locked them, only to find them ajar each morning. As strange as these little anomalies were, she convinced herself that she could overlook them or explain them away as forgetfulness; what she couldn't explain was the soft, masculine voice that manifested itself on an almost daily basis.

The first time she'd heard it was late one night about a week after they'd settled into the house. She'd been exhausted when she'd gone to bed in her room just off of the kitchen, but she'd been wakened by the whistle of the tea kettle. Deciding to join a sleepless Isabelle for a cup of tea, she rose and slipped on her robe. Opening her door, she was stunned to hear the young woman deep in conversation with a man. The theme of their words was lost on her as she strained to recognize the soft, accented voice speaking in a low, steady tone. Passing into the kitchen, she was surprised to find Isabelle alone at the table, sipping hot tea from one cup while another, her ridiculous chipped cup, on a saucer opposite of her. Quickly surveying the room, she saw no sign of a man. Somewhat flushed, Isabelle had apologized for disturbing her and Martha had returned to her bed to wonder why her mind had played such a trick on her.

There were days in the beginning, when she found herself working alone in the kitchen or doing laundry on the back porch when she thought she heard a sigh, or even in impatient rumble whispering from the shadows. She attributed it to the sounds of the house settling, or the wind coursing through cracks and crevices. There were always logical explanations for strange noises, natural occurrences that mimicked the deep timbre of a man's voice. Natural occurrences were more difficult to come by in regard to minute repairs done around the house, gardening that was suddenly minus weeds and windows that raised themselves in the middle of the night, however, she was sure she could have continued to explain it away if it hadn't been for Isabelle.

From her bedroom just off of the kitchen, Martha frequently woke to Isabelle's animated voice in the next room after the house had settled. She'd peer through the door, the familiar sight of the younger woman in her robe, two steaming cups of tea before her. In earlier days, she feared that the strains of being on her own had been too much for the younger woman; that she was talking to herself, rehearsing her day and the stresses of running her own house. Craning her neck to peek further into the room, she'd see no one with her, and then it had seemed as if the conversation was one sided. It wasn't long, however, before she began to hear responses in the warm, rich tones of a male voice.

This new development puzzled her: Isabelle had never been the kind of woman to entertain a man alone, long after dark and secreted from her friend's knowledge. Martha Potts had certainly taught her better than that! Edging around the door, she'd catch a glimpse of the late-night visitor, his profile barely illuminated by the flickering flame of a single candle on the table between him and the lady of the house. He had the look of a seafarer about him, and he spoke of travels abroad in the thick accent of a Scotsman.

At her first glace of him, she thought that she should make her presence known, but a deeper instinct told her to wait and keep her counsel to herself. She noted the easy friendship between them and the rapt attention of her mistress, who had always craved adventures of her own. The mysterious man spoke of people and places around the world, and Isabelle, obviously caught up in his tales, asked questions which he then patiently answered, both of them enjoying the other's company. Stealing quietly into her room and closing the door, the housekeeper slipped back into her bed to contemplate who this man was and why his nocturnal visit didn't send her spiraling into righteous indignation. The next day, Martha found herself being uncharacteristically shy about questioning Isabelle directly about the identity of the visitor. She neither wanted to accuse her friend of scandalous behavior, nor did she wish to risk the young woman's confidence. Subtle hints to Isabelle were met with amused, inward smiles or deflection.

The identity of the late night visitor was solved one evening about four months after they had moved in. Martha had finished cooking a dinner of baked fish, crusty bread and steamed vegetables and had called Lucy in to help set the table. Bounding into the kitchen, the spry child had laid plates and flatware out on the table and had come back to help Martha with the serving spoons needed for the bowls and platters being readied to transfer to the table. Rifling through a kitchen drawer for the utensils, Lucy warbled merrily, "The captain likes fish."

"What's that, dear?" Martha asked distractedly, turning a pot of vegetables over into a waiting ceramic bowl.

"The captain likes fish," the child repeated.

Martha pushed the bowl aside and opened the oven door. Grabbing two pot holders, she bent and pinched the ends of the baking dish holding a savory salmon. A chill passed over her in spite of the heat pouring out of the oven as her mind caught up with Lucy's words. Straightening, she turned toward the occupied girl and quietly asked, "What captain?"

Looking up at the housekeeper with large eyes, Lucy shrugged. "Captain Gold. He says he likes pot roast better, but he likes fish, too. He can't actually eat it, but he likes to sit at the table with us anyway." Ducking out of the kitchen with a handful of utensils, she left a very shocked Martha alone with her thoughts.

With shaky hands, the usually unflappable Martha plated the fish and turned the gas fueling the oven off, musing over Lucy's revelation all the while. _Captain Gold._ Every night, Lucy faithfully set a place at the table for the former owner of the house, a custom she'd held ever since moving in.

Martha had never really given any consideration to anything concerning the afterlife. She'd been raised in the church, and attended regularly, and she held the beliefs expressed by the local pastor as true and immutable. Truth be told, though, her mind was usually occupied with the day to day logistics of running the house, her inner musings seldom touching on the world outside of her own physicality. Standing alone in the kitchen, she did a quick assessment of her sentiments, wondering if she was even able to entertain the idea that a ghost could exist, let alone occupy the house with them. While still in contemplation, she carried the fish laden platter into the dining room and set it on the table, carefully keeping her eyes fixed to the dish in her hands. Isabelle and Lucy were already seated, chatting gaily with each other. Skirting around them to return to the kitchen for the remaining food, she paused quietly at the doorway before turned resolutely back to the dining table.

There he was, _Captain Gold_ , seated quietly at the head of the table. His shaggy hair framed a sun-worn and bearded face, a contented smile causing crinkles about dark, warm eyes as he watched the two seated at the other end. A thrill passed through the maid and her heartbeat quickened as she stared at the apparition sitting quietly with her little family. She then directed her attention to Isabelle, her breath paused in wonder and fear as she considered what relationship had formed between this lingering spirit and her fair, young employer. It was at that moment that Isabelle chose to glance across the table, returning the captain's smile, her own eyes alight with familiarity and warmth. Without a word, Martha quietly passed into the kitchen.

Her first instinct was to rail against his presence, insisting he leave at once. However, it was apparent he had been interacting with her employer and her daughter for some time without engendering threat or fear in either of them. She'd been overhearing the nightly conversations between Isabelle and the spirit for weeks now, had heard the tone of friendship developing between them. She decided to keep watch over the situation and see what happened.

Over time, she gently probed Lucy about the apparition who haunted them. Of course, questioning her about any direct knowledge regarding open windows or small repairs to the house had been met with puzzled looks: the child was occupied with school during the day, and she was asleep at night when her mother was chatting with the mysterious spirit. Lucy revealed her knowledge of him in her little drawings or in snippets of conversation with her dolls. The housekeeper had no idea what had transpired between Lucy and the ghostly captain, but it was obvious the little girl had no fear of him. Taking a deep breath, Martha decided to wait and watch, ready to rail against the dearly departed _captain_ should he prove a threat to her little family. She also decided to keep her knowledge of the captain to herself.

One month later, Cora Mills had come to call, bringing the news that Isabelle's income had been cut off. Martha had learned to loathe the woman during the years of Isabelle's marriage to her insufferable son. In all of her life, she'd never met a more malevolent and self-serving viper. The moment she'd entered the salmon house with her acidic daughter, she'd known they were there to collect her young employer for nefarious purposes of their own. To her surprise, Cora and  Regina had left within a few minutes, escorted unceremoniously out the front door by an outraged Captain Gold. She and Lucy had watched in excited gratification as their self-appointed protector pulled the pair down the stairs, pushed them out the door and laughed from the front porch as they scrambled into their waiting coach and fled from the house in terror. As far as Martha was concerned, he was now family.

Keeping her knowledge of Daniel Gold's presence a secret had become something of her own self-amusement. She admired him for encouraging Isabelle's talent in writing his biography and respected him for finding such a clever way to enable the young woman to support herself. She watched Isabelle's confidence develop, something that would never have happened with her late husband. That same confidence had manifested itself in Lucy, as well. The child grew healthy and robust in the atmosphere of the beach-front home, her days of shy clinginess and inactivity long behind her. The housekeeper had seen many times how the man carefully watched over the girl when she played on the beach or in the back yard. On stormy nights, when she'd checked in on the sleeping child, she'd often seen the captain silently keeping vigil in a chair by the rain pelted window, watching over Lucy as the girl said he'd promised her. He had taken on the role of father without any obligation to do so, and this commitment endeared the spirit to her in a way none of his other actions had.

In quieter moments, she watched him with Isabelle, both unaware she could see and hear the captain, as their friendship blossomed into love. She had no idea how they'd resolve their feelings for one another until the day she'd seen the young woman wearing the _claddagh_ ring, its diadem indicating she considered herself married. She wasn't sure about the validity of such a marriage, but the maid approved of the match. The weeks following this new development revealed a very happy and contented woman, and Martha felt a small pang in her heart that her friend had not found that happiness with a man living in her own world.

XXXXXXXXX

A light breakfast of cinnamon rolls and tea waited on the kitchen table. Isabelle cast a coquettish smile over her shoulder at Daniel as they entered the kitchen, discreetly dropping his hand so as to not draw attention to her. Sashaying away from him earned her a teasing swat on her arse from her husband. Gasping, she turned and narrowed her eyes at him and then cast a hasty glance in the direction of the table to see if their playful actions had been noticed, even while she surreptitiously rubbed the slight sting from her bottom. Thankfully, Martha and Lucy's attentions were on breakfast, so she opted to meet Daniel's satisfied smirk with a flirty grin.

They joined the others, already seated, Daniel at the head of the table with Isabelle to his right. Accustomed to Lucy setting his place with his favorite chipped cup, it took him a moment to realize it had been filled with hot tea. Thinking the child had taken it upon herself to serve him, he silently caught her eye and nodded his thanks to her. She'd been preoccupied of late with his eating habits, not quite understanding why he never actually partook of the family meal with them.

The morning was already warm, the promise of a sweltering day hanging in the still air permeating the kitchen. All of the windows had been opened in hopes of filtering in any stray breeze, and the door had been flung wide with only the screened door keeping out the early morning insects buzzing around the back porch. Laundry baskets waited on that porch, and Martha already had several large pots of water heating on the stove. They'd planned to tackle the day's chores of laundry, floor scrubbing and garden weeding early, before the heat became unbearable, in favor of an afternoon picnic on the shore line where they could enjoy the cooler ocean air.

The ladies all wore light cotton clothing, Lucy in pigtails and the others with their hair pulled up and away from their necks. A light sheen of sweat was already beginning to collect on their skin as the heat from the stove and the temperature outside coalesced in the bright kitchen. Daniel, unaffected by the temperature, was clad in his usual black jacket and turtle neck sweater, his hat secured on his head.

"You know, captain, you really should step out in shirtsleeves today. It's too warm for these woolen things," Martha admonished, passing him the plate piled high with warm rolls.

Stunned, Isabelle drew in a deep breath, her mouth gaping in surprise. "Martha, you can see him?"

Amused, the housekeeper shrugged. "For a long while now, Miss."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"And spoil the fun?" she asked. Turning an amused smile toward the astonished ghost, she offered her hand, which he took, surprising her with a solid handshake. "I've known about you almost from the beginning, sir. I suppose it's time to make your acquaintance."

Laughing heartily, he removed his hat and shook her hand vigorously. "Aye, I am well glad to make yers!"

"Martha," Isabelle laughed, "we were so worried about telling you about Daniel. Neither of us had any idea that you were aware of him."

"Of course I was aware of him," the housekeeper answered while sipping her tea. "I'm aware of a great many things, _Mrs. Gold_!"

Lucy and Daniel laughed, but tears stung Isabelle's eyes as she watched her dearest friend accept her strange husband. Softly she asked, "I wanted to tell you about that. Are you angry at me?"

Reaching across the table, Martha offered her a calloused hand and answered her with unaccustomed emotion. "Of course not, dear! I'm very happy for you, for both of you. I can't say that I understand it, but it seems like a good thing." Turning, she saw that Daniel had shed the winter clothes in exchange of a cotton, button down shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up and ready for a morning in the garden. Approving, she ordered, "Enough of this chatter; everyone has chores to do! Now, hurry up, all of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful Beta, OneMagician, for taking time away from your own incredible stories to work your magic with mine. You bring out the best in me!


	20. Where Hearts are Anchored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Inspiration: Per Te by Josh Groban (English subtitles)

It was already hot at mid-morning, a combination of summer heat and humid sea air forcing the occupants of the salmon Victorian to open every window in the house in the hopes of catching a chance breeze. This was merely a lull before a tropic storm due inland on the morrow as the airstreams of the great ocean warred with those of the summer-drenched land. Great flocks of birds had taken flight towards the coast ahead of the depression, snapping up any available food and finding hiding places along the woodlines and eaves of cottages by the shore and the village below. The local fishermen had put out for one last catch in hopes of making some of their weekly quota against the two or three days they'd be grounded, while their land-dwelling neighbors readied shops and homes for the incoming storm. Daniel and Isabelle spent the morning gathering the ripened - and nearly ripened- produce from their little garden, checking shutters for sturdiness and securing some of the tools and such they normally kept outside. Martha and Lucy had gone to town to fetch a few supplies they might need against the storm, as well as a brace of licorice whips Lucy swore was her only defense against the thunder and lightening she'd have to endure for endless hours.

The lack of any breath of wind to cool her had driven Isabelle out onto the porch, and the captain gladly joined her. She was wearing a green cotton dress, the top few buttons of which she'd unbuttoned, her hair pulled up into a messy bun with a few stray ringlets dangling precociously about her face. She looked sweet with sweat beading along her neck where her thick hair touched her skin and Daniel watched distractedly as a slow trickle of moisture trailed down her smooth cheek unheeded as she read. She was seated in the rocking chair, several letters and contracts opened and sorted on the floor in front of her, one of which she was trying to discuss with him.

"Mr. Hopper says the printers have set the plates for the book itself, and the first thousand copies…" biting her lower lip, she looked up at her husband with elation, " _the first thousand copies_ … should be ready to print within three weeks!" She scanned the top of the page for the date. "That was six days ago, Daniel! It's a little over two weeks now!"

"All that far away?" he winked at her from the porch steps. After Martha's admonishment, he'd taken to appearing in a cool cotton shirt and breeches, looking more like a gentleman farmer than a sea captain. He grinned at his excited wife and then returned his attention to the contract he had been reading earlier. He'd found nothing but admiration for Isabelle's attorney, Mr. Shelton, pleased that the lawyer honestly had her best interests at heart and had secured the most lucrative offer for the book and for future publications. Aside from the advance, he'd also garnered a generous percentage for royalties for _The Dark One's Dagger_ for her. True to his word, Hopper proposed an offer for her to write a series of six political articles (from a woman's perspective, of course), as well as future consideration for any further books she'd write. Isabelle had a keen mind and he had no doubt she was well on her way to a successful career as an author.

A light breeze whispered over the porch and teased at the stray tendrils of Isabelle's hair, the movement catching Daniel's attention. Her oval face was flushed from the humidity, and a light sheen of perspiration glistened on her skin; long, dark lashes partially hid the cerulean eyes dancing over the letters on the page. She seemed unaware he was watching her as she studied the contracts and proposals, and he grinned appreciatively as she unconsciously worried her bottom lip with her teeth. He'd have liked to worry that lip with his own teeth. Sighing, she tilted her head back, slowly exposing her graceful throat to his gaze as she stretched. Closing her eyes she used the letter to fan herself, the currents of stirred air cooling her face and neck and the delectable patch of creamy skin exposed under her blouse where she'd opened the buttons.

Mesmerized, Daniel stood up and quietly closed the distance between them. Softly, he traced a feathery stroke over her cheek and down her throat, coming to rest lightly on the delicate bones framing her shoulders. His touch was cool and Isabelle's' breath hitched at the sensation. He lowered his face to hers until his mouth hovered just over hers, her lips parted expectantly. "Donna think, me love," he whispered, "that I donna know you're doin' that on purpose."

His eyes were the earth, and hers were the sky, and when she opened them to look at him she thought she could never exist without him.

"Aye," he smirked, carefully taking her lower lip between his teeth, releasing it while he gazed into her heart. "And what were ye hopin' to gain by such a tactic?"

"Well, you were so far away."

Pulling her to her feet, **s** he looped her arms around his neck as he wrapped his around her waist, "Well now, dearie, what are yer intentions now that ye've managed to get me attention?"

"I'm sure I'll think of something," she answered breathlessly.

"Isabelle?"

Startled, Isabelle pulled back from Daniel, shocked to see Killian Jones standing at the bottom of the porch steps, his face a mask of confusion. She quickly looked at Daniel, an unwelcome scowl twisting his own features, then back to the man watching her from below. She realized that he could neither see nor hear her ghostly husband, and knew how her actions must appear to him. _Just how long had he been standing there_ she wondered. Taking a deep breath and releasing it, she decided the best course to take was to ignore what had happened and go forward. Smiling with genuine warmth, she took two steps toward him and offered him a hand in greeting. "Killian; it's so nice to see you again."

Jones regarded her for a moment, and then gingerly accepted her hand, pausing as he took a moment to study her face. Finally, he offered her a pained smile of his own. "Yes," he responded weakly. Walking up the steps, her hand still in his, he came to stand in front of her, his eyes searching hers before carefully asking, "Are you alright, Isabelle?"

"Of course I am," she answered with a small laugh. Turning, she knelt down and began gathering the contracts she and Daniel had been reading, explaining to Jones in excited tones that she'd been going over correspondence from Mr. Hopper. The task completed, she stacked the papers neatly on a side table, and then poured him a glass of lemonade from the tray resting on the same table. Daniel stood by the porch railing, scowling at the back of the blaggard's head, his arms crossed over his chest in irritation. Gesturing to Jones to sit on a hard back chair, Isabelle resumed her perch in the rocker and asked, "So, what brings you here this morning?"

"I'm on my way back to  Florida ," he answered with a crooked grin, "for a few days of relaxation before sailing down to the  Caribbean to scrounge up some new perspective on the same old news."

" _Ah, well, that's good!_ " Daniel said testily. " _Say goodbye and send him on his way_."

Isabelle coyly raised an eyebrow in Daniel's direction, finding his obvious jealousy a bit more flattering than she should. Ignoring the remark, she addressed Killian, "That sounds like fun."

Jones noticed Isabelle's attention seemed diverted, as if she was interacting with someone unseen, and his heart sank. He had scoffed at Cora's conviction that Isabelle had suffered a breakdown; had become enamored with the subject of her biography- had begun to believe he was alive in the house. He had suspected as much himself, but he also knew that his employer had designs on Isabelle for furthering her business empire and he'd attributed _her_ accusations to having her plans thwarted by the younger woman.

However, when he watched Isabelle now as she directed her eyes behind or around him, smiling secretly as if listening to another voice, he began to fear for her in earnest. Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward in his chair and placed his glass on the floor. "I thought you might like to go with me, see a bit of the coast?"

_ "Not on yer life, ye son-of-a-" _

"Killian," Isabelle interjected, "that's very kind, but I couldn't possibly go with you."

The journalist looked crestfallen. "Sorry, love, that was rather abrupt of me." He ran his hands through his tousled, black hair and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. Looking up at her, he smiled apologetically. "Look, I'm not going to pretend I don't have ulterior motives. I . . . I think it would be good for you to get away from here for a bit. You've been working so hard and . . ." taking her hand, he spoke softly, pleadingly, "I think a little fun . . . would be a good distraction."

_ "Over his dead body!"  _

Isabelle looked up and gave Daniel a warning glance before dropping her gaze to her guest. "That is very kind of you, Killian, but it really is impossible right now. I've just gotten started on all of this," she said, gesturing to the stack of correspondence on the table. "I have to be in  Boston in two weeks to finalize all of the paperwork, and there are to be book signings at several bookstores in the area, as well as a reception to meet the publisher's board. I have a million things to do before I leave."

He shrugged, and there was an awkward moment of silence, a hint of disappointment briefly and inadvertently stirring around his eyes as his guarding mechanism failed. It was there and gone just as fast, though, and Isabelle barely noticed it before he decisively returned to his usual extraordinary mirthfulness. "In that case, I'll give you a rain check," he grinned, "but you have to promise to see me off tomorrow evening."

_ "See him off?" _

"See you off?"

"Of course," he grinned conspiratorially. "A quick drink and a fond farewell, one author to another. What do you say?"

"There's a storm due in tomorrow night," she answered.

"Ah, but I'll be sailing south, so I'll miss it," he replied with a lopsided smile. "Besides, I'll see you safely home before the first drops fall." The smile waned and fell away unexpectedly though, and the sadness he'd been trying to hide finally defeated his front, broke through and became evident in his gaze. "Please, Isabelle . . . come tell me goodbye?"

_ "Belle, no." _

Killian's pain tugged at her heart. She knew that he had been disappointed by her rejection of his proposal, and she had no desire to encourage him to pursue her. But, she still treasured his friendship and she was loathed to disappoint him any further; besides, what could it hurt? Ignoring Daniel's glower, her softer heart sympathizing with the lost man on their porch, she smiled and agreed. "Alright, I'll come by the boat tomorrow afternoon." She was rewarded with a genuinely happy beam from Killian and an evil glare from Daniel.

"Do I have your word on that?" Killian pressed.

"You do," she promised. Daniel looked ready to burst. He didn't like Jones' interference with their lives, didn't like the way he looked at his wife with such longing. Isabelle refused to see the monster quietly lurking beneath the handsome face of the journalist, but Daniel knew it was there. Jones had a pirates' heart: coveting what he didn't own, taking what he had no right to and leaving treasure spent and forgotten once he'd used it for his amusement. He was the kind of man who'd sell his soul to the devil to get what he wanted the easy way. Aye, he'd seen his type over and again on every shore he'd set his feet upon, and he'd not let him betray Belle's friendship.

_ "Well, that's lovely, me dear; now send the scoundrel packing so we can get back to what we were doin' afore he interrupted."  _

Isabelle blushed, her eyes going wide and her mouth opening in surprise before she reined herself in to avoid Jones' scrutiny. She was acutely aware of the tension building around her as Daniel became unreasonably piqued and Killian furrowed his brow in watching her responses to her husband's unseen presence. Deciding it would be best to put distance between the two, she seized on the time of day and her necessary schedule to prevent a confrontation. Rising from the rocker, she addressed Jones, saying, "I'm afraid I'll have to cut our visit short; I really need to get ready to meet Martha and Lucy in town."

Grinning broadly, he offered, "Well, that's perfect! I'd love walk with you."

_ "Oh, ho ho," _ Daniel scoffed. _"I'm sure ye would!"_

"That isn't necessary," Isabelle said quickly. "It will take a bit for me to make myself presentable."

"Nonsense," Killian responded, determined to spend as much time as he could with the beauty. "You look quite lovely in what you're wearing. Just get your hat and I'll keep you company on the road."

At a bit of a loss, she chanced a covert look at Daniel, eyes angry and jaw clinching, and somewhat sheepishly excused herself to get ready. Quickly gathering the stack of correspondence, she walked into the house and made her way to the parlor where Daniel already stood waiting for her.

"So, yer goin' to town now with Mr. Jones?" he spat.

"Yes, Daniel," she said resolutely as she stashed away the documents in her hand. Wearily, she turned to face him, thinking how splendid he looked when he was angry even though she thought him foolish to be so. "I did agree to meet Martha in town to help with the shopping, and now is as good a time to leave as any."

"Ye donna need to leave with _him_!"

Hearing the petulance in his voice, Isabelle walked to him and unlocked his crossed arms. Honestly, he did tend to lock up on himself when he was displeased. Taking both of his hands in hers, she smiled up at him teasingly. "Are you jealous, Captain Gold?"

"Of that gutter snipe?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes."

In one movement, he moved their combined hands around her back and pulled her tightly to him, bringing her face close to his. "Aye, I am, Mrs. Gold. Who would'na be so wi' a wife as beautiful as mine an' him wantin' her for himself?"

"Daniel!" she admonished. "Killian is my friend. He's only trying to help."

"Aye, and he'd like to help himself!"

Pulling her hands from behind her she wrapped them around his neck and rose up on her toes, drawing herself up to mold her body close to his. "He _is_ trying to help. Besides," she breathed in a low voice, pressing light kisses to his bearded cheeks, "I already belong to you."

He leaned in, capturing her lips with his, slowly tasting her, reveling in the quickening of her breath to his ministrations. After a moment, he pulled back to look at her, savoring the dusky tint her eyes and the pink glow her face took on when he aroused her.

"Ye do belong to me, Belle-of-Mine, and I kin ye donna fear Mr. Jones advances," he whispered huskily. More urgently than before, he crushed his lips to hers, probing her perfect mouth with his tongue possessively as he dropped his hands lower to cup her bottom and bring her even nearer to him, delighted when she moaned softly, responding to him hungrily. He released her slowly, smirking as she gasped and laid her head dizzily against his chest. Satisfied that he'd left no doubt as to whom she belonged, he added, "But I'll walk along wi' ye just the same."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Isabelle put on a straw hat and grabbed her purse and the ever useful whicker basket. Daniel pulled her into a passionate embrace, giving her a thorough kiss, leaving her breathless and a bit giddy. Satisfied that she'd be thinking more about him than Jones on the road to town, he released her and the two of them walked out on the porch. Killian, leaning against the post by the stairs, turned toward Isabelle as she came out of the door. His features were drawn and he briefly met her eyes with a pained expression before relaxing back into his usual casual smirk. Tripping lightly down the steps, he turned and presented Isabelle with a roguish bow and offered his hand to assist her down the steps beside him. Gritting his teeth, Daniel seethed as Isabelle accepted the journalist's help.

Jones walked street-side on Isabelle's left, so Daniel kept to her right, unseen by Jones, intending to go with his wife as far as he could while the rogue accompanied her. Passing through the front gate, they headed along the pathway, turning right on the road leading to Storybrooke. Killian was uncharacteristically withdrawn, walking quietly with his hands in his pockets. Sensing her friends' melancholy, Isabelle filled him in on her plans for the trip to  Boston . He only engaged in the conversation when she began questioning him as to his own impending journey to the southern hemisphere. Daniel, caring not a whit for the other man's plans for his upcoming trip, slipped his hand into his wife's, gently squeezing her slim fingers as a reminder of his presence. She rewarded him with a covert flirty glance.

Although the day was hot, the road itself was quite pretty. It had been many years since the captain had made this trek, and he found himself drinking in the sights and sounds of the day like a famished man. On Daniel's side was a lush wood line of oaks and maples and ground foliage crashing together in a canvas of lush greens and deep browns. The tall grasses between the road and woods were flecked with bright pops of gold, red, blue and white wildflowers, alive with insects hopping about the flora and fauna. To their left was the vast blue ocean lined by the sandy beach, populated with fishing boats and hovering gulls; above them was an azure sky brightly lit by the sun, the clouds of the incoming storm barely discernable far to the east.

In his present condition, Daniel could neither discern the oppressive heat and humidity of the day - something he was grateful for - nor smell the elements of the earth and air around him. What was quite evident to him, however, was his growing receptiveness to Isabelle. In the weeks since they'd taken vows, he'd become aware of the increasing physicality of his interactions with his very alive wife. From the softness of her skin and the feint rose-like fragrance she exuded to the honey-sweet taste of her lips and the silkiness of her chestnut tresses, her presence was awakening sensations in his ethereal body. Her touch evoked the long forgotten sensations from his earthly existence, grounding him to her in the world he'd been cut off from when he'd died. Even now, he was acutely aware of her warm, little hand clasped in his, and he found the sweat and honey fragrance of her sun kissed skin a very pleasant distraction. The fear he once had that the physical aspect of their relationship would be strained and awkward had all but vanished as they'd discovered their unique connection. He craved her caresses and found himself attuned to her essence more often than not. Even during the times he busied himself at occupations away from her, he could discern her effervescent presence, his spirit seemingly anchored to her as if tethered together no matter where she was.

He glanced at her as she walked beside him, her head turned away as she listened to Jones on her other side. Without thinking, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed an affectionate kiss on the back of it. She glanced back at him, her eyes alight with promise. How he loved that expression!

Near town, the road veered sharply to the right, a wood rail fence marking the boundary of Leroy's dairy farm. Several beige and white  Jersey cow were grazing within its confines, contenting themselves on mouthfuls of tall, swaying grasses. Scattered here and there were spring calves, half-grown and fat, playing amongst the larger bovines grazing lazily in the sun. The pasture held a gentle slope that moved upward toward a small, white house in the distance, and behind it a large red-stained barn. All was neat and organized. He'd forgotten this pastoral home was laid so closely to his. Two boys, a slight one around Lucy's age and a taller, stockier youth were pitching a baseball back and forth in the upper pasture, no doubt training for a weekend against a local rival. Leroy's tall, thin wife was hanging her wash on the line between house and barn, and she paused to raise a friendly hand to wave at Isabelle on her way to town.

Having been alerted to the travelers presence by their mistress, two energetic border collies came barreling from the house and under the lower rails of the fence, barking a friendly greeting at the two they saw walking up the roadway. Tails wagging, the black and white bundles of energy fairly danced around the familiar Isabelle and Killian, having come to expect affectionate patting or small treats from them. The travelers laughed and accommodated the lively pair, scratching them behind the ears whenever they managed to wiggle in the right direction. Daniel watched nearby, chuckling at the display. _"Playful, aren't they?"_

As one, both dogs snapped to attention, the hair on their backs standing on end, each growling low and menacingly in his direction. Though unseen, they obviously sensed her husband's presence, and Isabelle tried to calm the beasts. "There now, Tripp, Shep; there's nothing to be afraid of." Neither her words nor her tone proved effective, and they continued to snarl as Killian stepped forward, pulling Isabelle behind him protectively. As many times as he'd passed this farm, the pair had never been anything but friendly. It puzzled him when the collies continued their uncharacteristic aggression at the place the petite woman had been standing moments ago.

At the same time, Daniel dropped to his knees where he could speak to them on eye level, their brown eyes keenly narrowed on him as they were suddenly able to see him. _"There, now lads, I mean ye no harm."_ Both animals cocked their ears in his direction, their hostility abating into confused whining. The larger dog, Trip, sniffed the air in his direction but detected nothing. Tentatively, the captain reached out and rubbed the dog's silky fur, settling the brown-eyed fellow considerably. _"Good lad,"_ Daniel crooned gently, stretching out to pet the smaller dog. The dogs responded to his touch, whining and tucking their tails between their legs as they shivered at his feet.

"See?" Isabelle said, coming out from behind her friend to kneel down next to Daniel. "No one's going to hurt you," she consoled the dogs, scratching the ruff of the pacified Shep. Looking over the canine's head, she grinned at her husband. "They aren't afraid, after all."

Running his knuckles affectionately along the collies' necks, he smiled up at Isabelle. _"It's all in the voice,"_ he teased.

Isabelle laughed and continued to caress the dogs playfully. Killian watched her, a shudder prickling up his spine. Her responses seemed off; the dogs had gone from hostility to friendliness in moments and he had the strangest sensation that something unseen had happened between the woman and the beasts. Trying to shake the feeling, he offered her a crooked grin and a hand up. Accepting, she busily brushed the dust off of her skirts, and tugging her hand, he pulled her back in the direction of Storybrooke. Scowling indignantly, Daniel resumed his place on her other side.

Killian took the lead in their conversation for the rest of the way, talking about his expectations for his upcoming journey and the weather forecast for the rest of the summer, anything except her odd behavior. It wasn't long before they emerged on the outside of town near the harbor, and he prepared to take his leave of her, offering her a lopsided grin. "You'll remember to meet me here tomorrow night? Around  five o'clock ?"

Giving him a parting grin of her own, she promised, "I will." Jones gave her a quick peck on the cheek and then walked off in the direction of the harbor where his boat was docked, the fact that the Rabbit Hole was on the way not escaping his attention.

Continuing into Storybrooke, Daniel suddenly looked around him, taking in the town, its streets and shops, the people scurrying too and fro as they ran their errands. It had been more than five years since he'd set foot in Storybrooke.

It had been five years since he'd set foot anywhere outside of his property.

Taking his wife's hand, he pulled her into the alley behind the _Storybrooke Savings and Loan._ Issuing a startled squeak, Isabelle found herself tucked betweena couple of trash cans and some stacked lumber. Meanwhile, Daniel peered around the side of the building, excitedly scanning the street, noting the people scattered about the town walking past him, a wagon parked by the drygoods store, the horses startled by Cogsworth's infernal motorcar stirring dust as it passed them. Shops, all painted in myriad colors yet managing to look uniform, stood exactly as he remembered them, and he chuckled contentedly as the clock in the tower over the library chimed eleven times to note the hour.

It only took a few moments for Isabelle to understand what he was so excited about, and the realization spread across her features in an incredulous smile. "Daniel . . . you're in town . . . away from the house!"

He was astonished. "Aye, love; I am." Raking his fingers through his hair, he asked shakily, "How is that possible?"

"I don't know," she answered. Grabbing his upper arms, she squeezed her hands around the muscles, testing his solidity. "How do you feel? You aren't going to fade away, are you?"

He responded with a sharp laugh. "I donna think so."

Afraid he might actually disappear in spite of his assurances, his wife ran her hand from his shoulder down his chest, testing his viability. "How are you able to do this?"

He had no idea. When he'd first entered his present existence, he'd been obsessed with boarding a ship and sailing to  Scotland to find his son. As soon as he'd leave the confines of his property, he'd find his thoughts becoming muddled, the world around him became foggy as he faded away like a dream. He'd become conscious minutes or hours or days later in some room of the house, encumbered by feelings of weakness and depression. Every attempt to leave ended the same way, and eventually he'd given up as he discovered longer gaps occurring between his leaving and his awareness.

What had changed? Looking at his wife, her eyes shimmering with tears, he realized that his focus before had been caught up in bringing his son to him; the energy of his life force concentrated in the home he'd built to share with him. Now, his heart was anchored to Isabelle. A feeling of complete freedom swept over him. He wrapped his arms around her and, lifting her off of her feet, spun her around laughing. When he realized his wife was crying, he set her down and began wiping at her eyes with his thumbs. "Ah, no tears, Belle-of-mine," he gently admonished. When she continued, he grew a bit concerned. "What is it, sweetheart? What's wrong?"

"Oh, Daniel," she said, her voice catching, "you're here; you aren't going to disappear, are you?"

Grinning, he answered quietly. "No, I think not." Leaning close to her, he whispered conspiratorially, "I think it's because I'm with ye, me darlin'."

A hopeful and incredulous smile spread slowly across Isabelle's features and suddenly she threw her arms around his neck, pulling him down to plant kisses across his cheeks and jaw and, finally, his lips. "You can be with me anywhere?" she asked, and then, drawing back from him, she said mischievously, "Let's see how far you can go!"

Wiping tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, she smoothed her skirts and picked up her basket. Taking his hand, she pulled him to the edged of the alley. Peeking around the corner, she looked back at him one time before tugging his hand and leading him from their hiding place into the street. They walked past several shops, Isabelle keeping Daniel firmly in her sights, afraid he'd suddenly dematerialize if he took one step too far away from their home, which now seemed so far away. It didn't help her confidence that the reflection she saw in the shop windows was hers alone, a proof that her husband was neither substantial nor corporeal.

As for Daniel, he was caught up in the sights and sounds of the village he'd last seen five years before. All around him, people scurried about running their errands, several of them greeting his wife with open friendliness. He chuckled with absurd pride that she was well liked by their neighbors; people whose friendship he'd never coveted for himself. The cursory well wishes and salutations served to relax her from her worrisome vigil over his well being enough to allow him to look over the town itself. The shops were much as he remembered them, all well kept and rather modern for a little port side town a bit off of the beaten track. Several of the older buildings had been painted to keep face with the newer, modern business that had sprung up, all of them neat and trim. He'd chosen well when he'd picked Storybrooke to build his home in. He wondered what had become of the cannery and little import business he'd built, hoping the new owners had been able to keep it profitable. He knew they'd not have time to see it today, but now that he could venture out, he'd find his way there in the near future and look in on it, the prospect of which gave him a bit of a thrill.

Several horses hitched to waiting wagons patiently waited next to the stores, and children, freed from school for the summer, darted about the wooden walkways and ran about the open ground in front of the white clapboard schoolhouse across the street. Lucy, clad in pink gingham, was among the small players skipping about in the grass, and he watched her frolic about with several boys and girls of her own age. The braids her mother had plaited for her that morning bounced wildly about her as she ran squealing from the girl who was apparently "it" in their game. Her face was flushed; her eyes alight with her exertions. A long smudge of dirt streaked across her cheek, and he could see her complexion freckled from her many hours in the sun. Such a beautiful girl was his little Lucy, so vibrant and alive; every inch her mother's daughter. There were many years ahead to watch her grow up, and he felt both privileged and blessed to be a part of her life. He smiled as she evaded her young pursuer by cutting through two of her fellows, thus providing new targets. She stopped running as Martha called her name sharply, the remainder of her discourse obscured by the snicker of a horse.

He felt Isabelle slip her hand along his arm, and he turned to see her smiling up at him. He acknowledged her with a nod of his head, and the two of them stepped into the street and crossed over to the Liddel Mercantile, arriving at the door at the same time Martha and Lucy did. The housekeeper raised an eyebrow in question at Daniel's presence, but the little girl merely offered him a lopsided grin. Looking down at her, the captain winked at her before pressing his finger to his lips, imploring her silence regarding his rather unexpected appearance in town.

A half hour later, the family emerged from the store with baskets filled with last minute purchases. In minutes, the town was at their backs and they rounded the bend in the roadway leading homeward. The shadows had lengthened considerably, the cooler breeze from the ocean tempering the hot air so that the walk was pleasant. The family chatted happily until they were well past the dairy farm and the beachfront was visible. Falling back and slowing down, Daniel pressed a light kiss on Isabelle's cheek before reaching around her and relieving her of the basket she carried.

She took his arm possessively and walked close in-step with him. "Daniel," she asked hesitantly, "what does it mean, your being able to come to town today?"

He hesitated, not really knowing the answer. "I think it means that things have changed." Strolling further down the road, he thought about the implications of this newly discovered freedom. "I think it means that me life is tied to ye, me little wife."

He glanced down at her as she mulled this information over, biting her lower lip as she thought. Meeting his gaze, she said breathlessly, "if that's true, you'll be able to go anywhere with me. We can go to  Boston together, maybe other places on a book tour." Stopping on the trail, she squeezed his forearm where her hand rested. "Oh, Daniel, we may be able to go to  Europe – to see your son!"

He grimaced, his face strained with emotion. What she had voiced he had dared not contemplate. "Perhaps, me darlin', perhaps; but I think we have much to prove before we go too far." He gently nudged her to continue up the road. "Let's do this in increments; town today, and a bit further later." Smiling self-depreciatively, he pointed out, "I'd surely hate to get halfway across the  Atlantic 'afore discoverin' it were too far."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next morning was gray and overcast as clouds from the east continued to sweep over the land. The hours after breakfast were spent securing the house against the upcoming storm. Daniel and Isabelle piled sandbags against the basement windows to stave off any high water, and followed those efforts by securing the shutters over the windows to protect them from debris tossed about by the expected winds. Martha busied herself in the kitchen baking bread, meat pies and a chocolate cake to tide them over for a few days should their gas service be interrupted. On the stove simmered a large pot of soup, which she intended to last through several days of relentless rain. Meanwhile, Lucy had found an abandoned kitten in the well house. Clutching the skinny, grey-striped tabby with white paws to her pinafore, she pleaded with her mother and Martha to let her bring it into the house for the night.

Martha was adamant the desolate creature was able to fend for itself and should be put out immediately. Isabelle, in spite of her tender heart, was put off by the fleas she saw crawling in its matted fur. It was Daniel, however, championing the poor thing cradled in Lucy's arms that decided the kitten's fate. Declaring the fleas would succumb to a little pine soap and a good scrubbing, Martha raked him over with a scowl before directing him to the wash pan to take care of the little beastie himself.

Both women then watched with amusement as the normally stoic captain cooed ridiculously at the scared kitten, carefully holding it by the scruff of the neck before dipping it in the tub of warm water and suds of pine soap. "There now, lassie," he soothed the suddenly feral feline, "no need to make such a fuss." Wet and growling with all the volume and ferocity of a full grown mountain lion, the angry kitten snarled and hissed, its claws extended as it thrashed the suds violently. "Reminds me of an old Tom cat we had on the ship to keep the mice at bay; same color," he said, reminiscing. "Old Frankie was a good cat."

Lucy drew as close to the tub as possible, fascinated by the tiny feline's transformation from a purring, shivering baby to a howling terror. "Why is she doing that?"

"Ah, the wee lass is scared, is all," Daniel explained. Holding the kitten firmly by the scruff, he instructed Lucy to ready the towel as he lifted it by one hand and poured clear, warm water over the unhappy tabby to rinse away the soap and dead parasites. He deposited the shaking, pitiful mess in the soft, white towel the child held up for it, she cradled it to her, wrapping the towel around the now mewling, shivering baby. "There ye are, darlin'. All she needs now is saucer of milk and a proper name."

Lucy gently rubbed the lump in the bundle, smiling thoughtfully. "I'll call her Frankie."

"That's a funny name for girl," Martha interjected from the side.

Shrugging, Lucy answered, "I like Frankie." She finished drying the water out of her charge's fur and fetched a saucer of milk from Martha, who grumbled about the entire affair under her breath as she puttered about the kitchen.

The afternoon was spent at the beach. Having been instructed to keep back from the turbulent, gray tide lapping angrily at the shore, Lucy busied herself filling two pails with sand. These she intended to fill a box for her new kitten to use during the stormy days ahead. Her task complete, she headed back to the house, leaving her mother and Daniel alone on the beach.

They walked up the stretch away from the house, toward an area secluded between the forest and the open  Atlantic . All the world about them was gray as the clouds churned across the sky to block out the sun, and the misty ocean coughed up angry waves to slap at the sandy shore. Gusts of briny wind spiked off of the ocean, tugging at Isabelle's clothes and whipping pins and needles of salt and sand in her face as Daniel walked beside her undisturbed. Releasing her husband's hand, she flashed a wicked grin at him, hiked up her skirts and broke into a run giggling unreservedly. He smiled as he watched her retreating form, her blue dress standing out starkly against the murkiness of the coming storm, and he marveled for the thousandth time how adversity always brought out the best in his little Belle.

She laughed as she ran up the beach, and risking a quick look behind her, she discovered that Daniel had vanished. Turning her face forward in bewilderment, she shrieked as she ran headlong into her husband's chest, his arms wrapping around her as he absorbed the impact. Laughing heartily himself now, he dipped enough to grab her around her thighs, lifted her up and began spinning her around. Isabelle threw her head back and opened her arms wide, soaring in Daniel's firm embrace. Her skirts fluttered about them, and he wished that this moment would never end as they danced to the music of the wind and surf and her ever present melodious, contagious laughter.

After a few moments, he loosened his hold on her, allowing her lithe body to sensuously slide down his own until her feet sank down into the moist, gritty sand, her arms falling over his shoulders to embrace him. Her eyes, so vibrantly blue, spoke of love and longing and desire, and her soft, full lips, so suddenly silenced from her mirth, were slightly parted, expectant. He was aware of the slightest movement as she pulled her sweet body up, trying to get as close to him as possible. His thirst for her was reflected in the intensity of his dark eyes. He tightened his arms around her, pulling her flush against himself, his hold on her almost too tight while his mouth took possession of hers. Brown and blue, their eyes were open, each of them peering silently into the soul of the other while they explored with tongues and teeth and breath, yearning for more.

Breaking free, Daniel gave her a smug look as she fairly panted with wakened desire. His eyes devouring her, he entwined his fingers with hers and determinedly led her to a small open brick pavilion hidden in the woods a little way off. Ivy and honeysuckle vines had grown over the structure, blending it in with its background so completely that you had to know it was there to see it amidst the trees and bushes. Sand from the beach had found its way inside, and dry leaves covered the old wooden plank floor.

Daniel knelt down in front of her and she joined him, trailing hungry kisses across his jawline and pushing her fingers through his hair before pressing her lips to his fervently, want and need in her every movement when she began to tug at his shirt. He could feel the tension building within him as he let her undo the buttons and shrugged it off, dropping it behind him, and he slid his hands down her sides, grasping her waist gently as she lowered her head to explore his smooth, cool body with her hands and mouth.

He relished her every touch on his skin as though he'd never been touched like this before, and each single contact was _searing_ him, _rippling_ through his very _essence_ ; he felt more alive now than he had when he'd actually _been_ alive.

He cupped her face in his hands and recaptured her eyes with his own, intently studying her in the shadows for a moment. She was so beautiful, both inside and out, and he was suddenly struck by how much she meant to him. There was _nothing_ he would not do for her, and panic welled inside him for just an instant – he never wanted to be apart from her ever again because every last fragment of his existence craved her presence, yearned for her warm and loving embrace, and he was convinced that he could not exist on any plane in any world should he ever lose her.

"I love ye, Belle," he murmured in her ear and tenderly laid her down on the leafy floorboards, following her and supporting himself above her as he slid one hand around her back to help her with her dress. "I'll always love ye…"

Grazing her neck with his lips, he pushed the dress down over her shoulders and stroked it off her tiny frame without leaving her unkissed for more than a second, his caresses growing more and more ardent as she rid herself of the bodice she'd been wearing underneath.

"I'll love you till the end of time," she responded, her voice barely above a breathy whisper. He felt her trembling all over beneath him, his bare, tingling skin on hers, her hands stroking him everywhere, and he could hardly take it anymore when she softly but decisively told him, "Show me forever, Daniel," because _forever_ was what he wanted.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A little more than an hour later, Isabelle slipped out of the front door and made her way up the road to Storybrooke. Daniel wasn't happy about her meeting Jones, but she insisted she keep her appointment. The rain was still a few hours away, and she needed Daniel to make good on his agreement to replace a few shingles on the roof over the kitchen. She promised to meet Killian for a moment to say farewell and then straight home in plenty of time to bolt the doors and shutters against the coming storm.

Sure footed on the crunching rocks and packed dirt under her boots, she followed the familiar path to town. The weather was steadily cooling and gusts of sterner winds snaked through the canopy above her as she cocooned herself by drawing her shawl close about her shoulders. She felt alive and cherished in the wake of her afternoon in Daniel's arms, and she welcomed the kiss of the cooler temperature on her flushed and heated skin, her thoughts lost on memories of her tryst with her husband on the soft, velvety leaves in the pavilion. Even though she was alone, a faint blush spread across her cheeks at the memory of his sweet caresses and a secretive smile played about her lips where his taste lingered still. His attentive sensuality had wakened a kindred spirit in her and she had never felt as fulfilled and happy as she was in this moment. Daniel's love not only slaked a thirst for life she had not known existed, but made her insatiable for more. She marveled at what forces had brought them together. Love, true love, was hers and she never wanted to let it go. It seemed too good to believe sometimes.

That the connection between Daniel and her was strong enough to allow him to travel with her was most prevalent in her thoughts. Mr. Hopper had advised her that a tour of several bookstores throughout New York and New England to promote her book would help her sales. He also told her that her political pieces would require she travel a bit. The prospect of long weeks and many miles away from home had seemed a daunting task before; now, with Daniel as a possible traveling companion, she looked forward to exploring the wide world as she once dreamed. It was true that they didn't understand this new freedom he'd discovered, but they planned to test his boundaries very carefully for she would not risk losing him.

Before she knew it, she had rounded the corner of the road into the nearly deserted town. Lights were already lit in those few shops that hadn't closed early, the comforting illumination from the windows contrasting starkly against the gloominess of the street. She turned left toward the port side of the town and quickly made her way to the little harbor. In was only a few minutes later she was greeted by somber crafts bobbing helplessly in the restless waves furiously churning beneath their hulls, each secured to their moorings by only a slender tether. A lone buoy clanged mournfully in the gray distance, and the world was void even of the usual gull cries as she climbed the rough wooden steps of the dock. Her little boots clicked hollowly over the planking as water sloshed over the sides and up between the gaps, the spray surging up, spitting droplets onto the bottom of her clothing. Killian must have been watching for her, for he emerged from his boat several yards away and hurried to meet her as she made her way to him. He flashed a crooked grin while offering her his arm. "Hello, love."

Gratefully, Isabelle accepted his support as the turbulent water surrounding them gave her the unsteady feeling that the dock was moving. He led her to his boat a few yards away, a red, 40 foot Schooner named _Pirate's Heart_. Three masts rose over a clean vessel of polished wood, lowered sails and endless catches of ropes and cables. Guiding the petite woman along the dock, he waited for her to gather her skirts in one hand, and then held her elbow steady as she climbed the ladder at the side of the boat to help her aboard. He quickly followed her up and then stood beside her as she turned in a slow circle, taking in his world with an appreciative eye. Killian's boat was impressive and he was obviously very proud of it. A sea-worthy schooner it was, all neat and trim and orderly, it smelled of wood wax, oil and something spicy like cedar. It was quite a vessel for one man to manage, but it was sleek and trim and was suited to its owner. He had sailed many waters in the craft and obviously had great skill to operate it alone on the Atlantic.

"Killian, it's wonderful," she pronounced sincerely.

Jones watched with mixed emotions as she looked over the only home he really loved, anxious now that she was aboard. He wished he had time to give her a real tour, wished that their circumstances were more in his favor. He wished she loved him; would go with him as he'd asked her to. He promised himself that he'd take her wherever she wanted to go some day; another time when things would be better, when the present was behind them. As for now, a storm was brewing and he needed to get her below deck. "How about that farewell drink you promised me?"

"Of course," she agreed. "The weather looks like it's coming on a bit faster than we thought."

It did, indeed. Already a light drizzle had begun to fall on them, the precursor to the coming gale. It made the deck a bit slippery so he took Isabelle's hand and led her to a door near the starboard bow. The door opened inward to reveal a set of enclosed stairs leading below the deck. He let Isabelle precede him, and he followed her down after shutting the door securely behind him. With the door closed the stairwell was pitch black, but he encouraged her to continue downward and soon the steps opened to a small room.

A lantern hung from a wooden beam, its low flame illuminating the center of the room while leaving the corners in dark, flickering shadows. Killian stood before her for a moment, studying her features with an enigmatic smile that didn't manage to reach his eyes. Isabelle peered up at him, her own face alight with the glow of happiness she'd carried with her from her earlier musings. His gut began churning unpleasantly and he frantically took her hand, holding it desperately in his own, face pale as if he had just glimpsed something terrible.

His sudden demeanor alarmed her, and a slight frown crossed her brow. "Killian," she asked anxiously, "are you alright?"

Averting his eyes, his voice gravelly through clenched teeth, he said, "I'm so sorry, Isabelle."

Jones gripped her hand like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver, his breathing ragged as he fought whatever demon tormented him. "Please, Killian, you're scaring me; what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Isabelle," he repeated, "I wish there was some other way."

Confused, she pressed him, "Some other way? What are you talking about?"

"I'm afraid he's referring to me, dear."

An icy stab of fear gripped Isabelle's heart as she turned toward the familiar voice behind her. A cold and deadly smile greeted her as Cora Mills emerged from the ebony shadows at the back of the room.


	21. Departures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For inspiration, Somewhere by Within Temptation

Time stood still for Isabelle as the floor beneath her pitched in the rhythm set by the wind battering the boat from above and the ocean convulsing below it. There was a moment in the counter-balance when she questioned whether she was awake or locked in some horrible nightmare. She felt faint and closed her eyes, her breath suspended as her mind caught up with the shock of seeing her mother-in-law emerge from the back of the room unexpectedly. Opening her eyes again, she saw that Cora was indeed on board the boat, standing only a few feet away.

The older woman was shrouded in the darkness, her face illuminated spectrally in the glow of the lantern light, lips curled in a sneer and her eyes giving away the pure animosity she harbored towards her deceased son's wife.

Isabelle thought that she had to be dreaming this; she was caught right in the middle of some sort of terrible nightmare... But the images just wouldn't fade as an eternity of seconds passed in silence.

"I . . . I don't understand," she finally stammered in disbelief.

Turning to Killian, who was stationed rigidly by the door behind her, her heart sank when she looked from one to the other, trying to fathom what possible reason existed for the woman's presence in the inner sanctuary of the man she knew as a friend. His face was strained. Placing a shaky hand on his arm, she leaned in toward him, forcing him to look at her with anguish.

"Killian," she demanded carefully, "why is she here? How do you know her?"

When he failed to answer, Cora sauntered forward, the shadows clinging to her black dress, the lamplight reflecting off of the silk lending it an oily appearance. Seating herself at the plain oak table, she insouciantly began pouring tea into several cups she'd prepared ahead of time.

"It's quite simple, dear," she stated coolly, "Mr. Jones and I are old acquaintances; business acquaintances, actually. He's been on my payroll for some time now, taking care of… well, shall we say, the more thankless tasks involved in running a profitable business." She set a teacup and saucer in the place across from her and gestured for the younger woman to sit down. "Come now, dear, we have many things to discuss."

Isabelle slowly retreated several steps back from Killian as her mind sluggishly digested what she'd been told. Killian was working for Cora? "Why?" she asked him, her voice thin and choked.

The journalist felt sick. He had expected to see the wounded look in the small woman's eyes, but that didn't diminish the sharp pain he felt at betraying her trust. He had never seen her vulnerable before, and knowing he had lured her here made him hate himself. He wanted to make this as painless for her as possible, so he gently directed her to the table. "Let's sit down and talk."

"I don't want to sit down, I want an answer!" she demanded, pulling back from him. "Why didn't you tell me you knew her? What is this about?"

Ashamed, he wished for the thousandth time that he'd not gone through with Cora's plan. To have the woman he loved regard him with that wounded expression at his disloyalty was almost more than he could bear. "It's complicated, love. I . . . I'm so sorry."

Shaking her head, hardly able to grasp what was happening, Isabelle snapped, "Well, _uncomplicate_ it."

He'd never seen her angry before, much less been on the receiving end of her withering glare. When he looked away, unable to bring himself to answer her, Cora intervened.

"He was my back up plan, dear; a very tried and true plan until now. Simply put, I needed you to marry Blanchard, and Mr. Jones here was supposed to steer you homeward, by whatever means necessary."

She leered at Isabelle, her meaning clear, and Isabelle felt bile rise to her throat.

"Killian has always been a gentleman to me," she retorted sharply, "he's been my friend, nothing more."

"Yes, dear, that much is obvious," Cora acknowledged with a brief glare of contempt aimed at Killian. "But I needed that merger with Blanchard. His company would have expanded our interests across the country, doubling our profits in less than two years. I had intended the match for Regina but, for all of her charms, he wouldn't be swayed in her direction; no, all he wanted was a mother for his little girl. After Gerald died, you became the more suitable choice. I had planned to introduce you when your mourning period was over, but you got it in your head to move to this wretched little town.

"I must say, you are even more stubborn than I gave you credit for." She sighed before leveling a look of long-suffering on the younger woman. "Your obstinate perseverance and determination in making your own way after I cut off your funds really surprised me. That's when I brought Mr. Jones in. It was his job to win your affections and then get you to agree to sell out here and return to Boston, where you belong. Of course, once you were there, he'd abandon you and you'd have no choice but to come home and go along with my plan."

Isabelle blanched, completely appalled by Cora's confession. She wheeled on Jones, shaking and breathless. "Your proposal . . . your friendship, all of it was a lie?"

"No!" Firmly looking her in the eye for the first time since the conversation began, he fought to find the right words – or any words at all – to say, that wouldn't make matters even worse, but started to stumble and blunder through all the thoughts that were forming and falling over themselves in his head. "No . . . I mean, it began as a lie, but . . . I didn't mean to, but . . . I do love you, Isabelle, you have to know that."

She stared up at him, incredulous for several moments before anger finally ripped through her. "Love me?" She felt sick. He reached his hand toward her and she shrank back from him, his presence making her feel dirty.

"There now, dear, there's no need to take it personally," Cora interjected, snorting back a laugh. "It's nothing he hasn't done before. Usually, he's quite the charmer." Killian responded with an evil glare, barely stifling the urge to throttle her.

The boat lurched and moaned as the wind buffeted it from outside. Isabelle's thoughts were similarly jolted, as she felt the sudden need to forsake the now fetid room. Dismissing her mother-in-law by turning her back on her, she looked up at Killian, hurt and anger mingling in her eyes.

"I've heard enough; I'm leaving." When he didn't move from in front of the door, she angrily attempted to shove him aside, but he caught her upper arm gently and reluctantly barred her way.

"I'm afraid we can't allow you to do that, Isabelle," Cora's voice quietly caressed from behind her as she struggled against Jones' towering weight.

"Why not?" she cried, and Killian restrained her further by grabbing her wrists until she stopped thrashing, holding her to him.

She half turned when she heard the chair scrape the floor as Cora rose, and Killian's grip on her loosened. She knew he didn't mean to hurt her. He would never hurt her… not physically, any way.

Moving on silent feet, the queen of aguish slowly closed the distance between them until she stood mere inches away from the younger woman, effectively pinning Isabelle between Jones and herself.

"We're going to Boston, dear," she explained reaching out a cold hand to smooth Isabelle's braid, smiling satisfactorily when the girl flinched away.

**XXXXX**

Daniel hadn't been happy watching Isabelle walk away from the house. He'd smiled when she'd turned at the gate to blow him a kiss as he'd knelt on the roof with a handful of shingles. Her flirtatious farewell had elevated his mood at bit, and he'd watched the gentle sway of her hips until she'd disappeared around the bend. Their afternoon in the little pavilion still lingered in his thoughts, as did the sweet smell of her sweat on his skin; it brought to mind the things she'd whispered to him, and the sound of her voice when she'd come apart echoed in his ears.

It made him uneasy and anxious to think that she was on her way to Jones now, even if it was only to say goodbye. He wanted that blaggard gone from her life, and he couldn't wait to know him safely – or otherwise – steering his tub out of the harbor bay. Perhaps there was such a thing as justice; God might have mercy on them yet, and the man would sink his barge somewhere way out at sea. They'd be free of him, and he'd never have to lay eyes on him again. He was sure Isabelle would get over it.

He tugged against the hammer to remove the lone nail of a loose and torn shingle, pulling at the tarry base still stuck to the roof. Once the offending material was out of his way, he worked a new shingle into the bare spot and nailed it in place. One after the other, he replenished the worn, shingles, practically noting that the entire roof would need to be replaced in a couple of years. As he worked at a steady pace, the wind played havoc with the shingles he'd laid out to use, whipping at them until they flapped wildly in his hands, or scooting them across the flat plane of the roof, all the while having no effect on him whatsoever. He grinned at how ridiculous he must look as he repaired the leaky places. Seeing just how many repairs that entailed made him regret the degree of disrepair the house had fallen into during his years of solitude. Of course, it had previously been merely a gaping husk haunted by a discarded old ghost; now, it was a home with a family, and as such, deserved the care and respect of a proper shelter.

 _A family; and at this stage of his . . . well, existence_. He shook his head in wonder as he gathered his tools and climbed down the ladder. He'd had a family before and lost it. His son across the sea would one day have a family of his own. Likely as not, Daniel would probably never see him again, and the fact that he'd managed to make his peace with him, however indirectly, was no small feat. In the end, Bae had known that his father had loved him, and that was all he'd ever worked for both in life and in death. Now, he had Isabelle. He had no business to distract him, didn't even miss it, really. His little wife and Lucy and Martha were his to love and protect and teach and work beside, and he would gladly pour himself into making them secure and happy. Their welfare was his priority and his domain, and he would do everything that was demanded of him to take care of them.

Smiling at the thought, he envisioned a long and happy future stretched out before them. He'd help Isabelle with her writing; perhaps accompany her on her journeys. He'd watch Lucy grow up, go off to university, marry and raise children of her own. He and Isabelle would take strolls along the long beach in front of their home, weather the ups and downs of a life filled with love and companionship. He'd see her grow old, her face soften with time and her locks of chestnut gradually turn silver; her smooth hands wither into the expression a lifetime of care and work and love, and he knew that she'd be as beautiful at eighty as she was today. He'd be with her to the end of her journey, and when her bright eyes closed in final slumber, he'd welcome her to his side.

That thought unsettled him a bit, and he took a moment to look up the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of her returning home, but there was no sign of her yet. He knew that she'd love the walk home in the growing tempest, and that her quick little steps would keep pace with the wildness unleashing itself around her. It had taken the former sea captain nearly three quarters of an hour to complete his task, and in that time, the skies had darkened considerably, the sun obscured by the arrival of the storm. After putting the hammer, nails and extra shingles in their places and securing the shed door, he materialized on the balcony of the bedroom he shared with Isabelle. All was black seaward, masking the face of the squall that was finally upon them. Sporadic flashes of lightening randomly laced the sky, momentarily reflecting off of the froth-flecked crests of waves surging angrily upward. The wind coming from the east had reached a fevered pitch with gusts strong enough to bow the treetops, its efforts making the house around him groan.

Turning his attentions to the road in front of the house, he looked for his wife again. Any moment, he expected to see her scurrying up the path, her blue skirts whipping around her petite frame, her hat flopping uselessly in her hand as her hair freely billowed about her in the wind. It would be just like her to dawdle about, taking too long to wish that scoundrel, Jones, farewell; maybe stop to admire the way the canopy blew one direction while the grasses blew the opposite way. _Don't worry,_ he told himself; _me Belle is fearless, but she's smart, that one, and will be here anon_.

The clock from the library tower sounded the hour over the din about him. Isabelle had been gone for over an hour, now.

A light drizzle began to dampen the balcony around him, and his stomach clenched coldly with it. He heard a hesitant rapping on the bedroom door behind him, and he turned as Martha entered the room.

"Pardon me, Captain," she started, coming up behind him and stopping at the balcony doors. "Can you see her?

Fixing his eyes back to the roadway, he shook his head. "No, not a sign of her yet."

"Well, she's always been one to take her time." She said it nonchalantly, but Daniel could hear the tension under her voice. It served to trouble him further as it matched his own sentiments.

"Aye," he agreed, "but she'll be on her way home by now."

Martha leaned toward the door, trying to peer around him to glimpse the roadway for herself. The steady wind chilled her and she pulled her shawl about her more securely. Catching his eye she offered, "I'm sure she will be. The rain is coming up now, though, and I don't trust that a stray branch or two might not block the road a bit."

Seeing that the housekeeper's concern was growing as alarmed as his own, he nodded grimly. "Why don' I go up the way a piece and see if I can hurry her along?"

Relief washed over Martha's features. "That's a good idea, Captain. I'll have some towels waiting by the door for her." Satisfied that Daniel would see her young miss safely home, she made her way back to the door admonished him, "and mind you, don't either of you leave any puddles on my floor when you come in." Looking back she saw that Daniel had already vanished.

**XXXXX**

Isabelle turned her back on Cora and stared angrily up at Killian. "I am _not_ going to Boston. Get out of my way," she demanded fiercely.

He slowly shook his head, bracing himself firmly, his anguished eyes refusing her and his body resolutely blocking the doorway. "I'm afraid not, love," he told her, his voice soft and caressing, and Isabelle shrank back from him.

"Killian, please don't do this," she begged.

He tenderly, pleadingly reached for her hand and was somewhat surprised when she took it, her face tight as she tried to work out his reasons for selling her out. The hard look he gave his employer signaled Cora to retreat a little and he gently led Isabelle back to the table, seated her and then hunched down beside her so that he had to look up at her. He kept his voice low and calm, half expecting her to rail against him again, and his heart wrenched at the way she was fighting back the tears that were pooling in her eyes. "We are going to Boston to get you help."

"Help?" Confused, she searched his face for a clue as to what he was talking about. "Help for what?"

Impulsively, he brought her hand to his lips and lightly kissed it, then explained hesitantly, "you aren't well, love."

" _What?_ "

He hesitated, gauging how best to address this without upsetting her further, and then spoke in quiet, soothing tones, making her feel like an irrational child that must be brought to reason. She listened all the same, astonished and wondering where this was coming from.

"Cora first told me about it some time ago," he admitted. "She said that you'd suffered a breakdown, had begun to see people who weren't there, heard voices." He clenched her hand more forcefully when she started to object, and continued, his voice rising a bit.

"I didn't _want_ to believe it at first," he told her, ignoring Cora's glare burning into the back of his head as though she wasn't there at all. He could afford to. Isabelle deserved an explanation, and he didn't care what the evil witch thought of him now. "I _wanted_ to believe that she was just angry that you were going against her plans."

Isabelle snorted, looking up at the ceiling. She should have known. This wasn't Killian talking. This wasn't him at all, and she hated Cora more than ever; deeply, completely, exhaustively _hated_ her.

There was more, however, and she began to understand the extent of the damage done, the damage she'd done to _herself_ without Cora even having to raise one finger to help, when he conveyed the rest of it.

"But, you see, I've been watching you over the last few months and . . . and . . . I've _seen_ you talking to someone who wasn't _there_." Isabelle wanted to withdraw her hand, but he wouldn't let her. "Isabelle, don't pull away!" he persisted, growing frantic, "I'm _sorry_ , _I truly am_ , but you need to see a _doctor_ , a _specialist_ , someone who has experience dealing with these kinds of situations."

Isabelle stared at him, her breath frozen in her lungs. She had to set this right. Oh _why_ hadn't she confided in him before it had come to this? She could have made him see… "Killian, you couldn't be more wrong!"

"Isabelle, at your house yesterday," he began painfully, "on the porch . . . you were talking to the air, having a conversation; and on the road to town . . ."

"You don't understand," she insisted vehemently, "please let me explain."

Killian drew a patient breath, waiting for her to give him an answer he wasn't sure he wanted to hear. She looked vulnerable as she gazed back at him, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. He knew they were standing at a crossroad, at a place where their relationship would be forever altered and he braced himself for the worst. Now, she was looking at him with that gentle buffering that always preceded unwelcome news and he wasn't absolutely convinced that he could deal with any more.

"I was speaking to my husband."

The world stopped.

Killian covered his eyes with his hands and took a ragged breath, the only other sound the storm buffeting the boat from outside, the room rocking with a turbulence that was as much about his emotions within as the typhoon without. Concerned, Isabelle gently touched his arm, only to have him shrug it off. He rose and took a few steps back, running his hands through his hair before clasping them behind his head. Standing still for a few moments, as still as the movement of the turbulent sea around them would allow, he tried to let the kiltering of his mind settle in one place.

When he turned to face her, he looked ready to cry. "Isabelle," he said weakly, cautiously, "your husband is _dead_ ; you _have_. _no. husband_."

"Killian, I . . ."

"I heard you in the parlor," he plowed on emotionally. "The window was open when you went inside, and I heard you talking to someone, only . . . there was no one with you." She started to interrupt, but he wouldn't let her.

"You've been acting . . . strangely . . . ever since you lost the oil shares, since you started writing your book. I know that you've been under a great deal of pressure to find a way to support yourself, to get your book published."

In truth, he blamed himself for that as he'd tried to get Hopper to turn her down. He felt the weight of guilt for damaging this woman, and he wished he could undo what he'd done. Returning to her side, he knelt back down in front of her, his eyes pleading.

"You need to rest, love." Risking a glance at his employer, he marked the loathsome smirk on her face and decided to throw all caution to the wind. He had nothing left to lose, and neither did Isabelle. "You don't have to go to Boston. Say the word, and I'll take us to Florida instead. Please, let me take care of you for a while."

She had seen his confusion over her actions the day before, but never had she expected this kind of reaction. His earnest desire to help her touched her deeply, but she needed to rectify the situation before it went too much farther. "Killian," Isabelle said desperately, "it's a bit difficult to explain so, please, hear me out." He didn't answer, seemed to be holding his breath as he waited to hear what she'd say. She flicked her eyes toward Cora, noting the smug satisfaction on her sharp features. Taking a deep breath, she turned her attention back to Jones, cerulean eyes centered on ice blue. "When I said I was speaking to my husband, I didn't mean Gerald; I was speaking to Daniel, my _current_ husband."

"Daniel?" he asked with a frustrated huff, "as in _Daniel Gold_? The man you wrote about?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation.

He continued to simply stare at her, afraid to say anything lest he upset her.

She told him how she'd discovered that Daniel's spirit still occupied her house after she'd purchased it, and how, over time, they'd become friends. They'd gotten to know one another during the course of writing his biography, and they'd married themselves under the starlight not too many weeks ago. She told him that Lucy and Martha adored the captain and her family was complete. She was so animated in her narrative, her eyes glowing warmly and her cheeks flushed as she spoke of her _ghost_. It was evident that she honestly believed him to be real and that Lucy and Miss Potts, for reasons that were beyond him, were encouraging her to continue to believe in him.

He realized she'd finished speaking and was waiting expectantly for him to respond, and he had no idea what he was supposed to say. There was so much sincerity in her eyes, in the way she held herself.

"You believe me, don't you?" she asked him, and his breath caught.

He looked at Cora standing in the shadows by the door, a predatory smile on her face.

Listening to Isabelle try to convince him that her captain was real was the most painful thing he'd ever experienced. He'd never loved any woman before, and maybe he deserved having his love rejected. He'd used women, played them for money or favors or sex, but none of them had ever inspired his loyalty or the sense of protectiveness he felt for this tiny widow. That her mind was overwrought, her thoughts disturbed only endeared her to him more. He wanted to help her, to protect her from her vicious mother-in-law, to find a way to make her better. He _would_ help her to get better.

Tenderly, he brought her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her knuckles. "It's going to be alright, love," he promised softly. "Please, trust me." Her eyes hardening, she pulled her hand from his and started to rise, only to have him press her shoulders resolutely against the back of the chair. Steeling himself against the pain of her rejection, he slowly rose and silently begged her forgiveness with sorrowful eyes.

Panicked, Isabelle realized they were intent on taking her with them: away from Lucy and Daniel. She bolted from the chair, ran to the door and tugged it open. Jones had anticipated her, however, and reaching it only a second behind her, he threw his weight against it, slamming it shut and cutting her off from freedom. Rounding her shoulders back, she slapped his face with all of the force she could muster, his head snapping back as her hand connected solidly with his left cheek. With a desperate cry, she flung herself at him once again, trying to force him away from the door.

He met her efforts by grabbing her hands less carefully than he had last time, pinning them above her head against the wall and bracing his body against hers to control her actions. "Calm down, Isabelle!" he commanded harshly. He held her fast as she struggled against him for a few moments, giving her time to realize how futile her resistance was.

She subsided with a choked sob, looking up at him defiantly, tears threatening but not spilling from her beautiful eyes. "Please, Killian," she whispered, " _please_ let me go home."

Slowly, he relaxed his grip on her wrists, his determination waning as his heart broke for her.

"Enough of this, Mr. Jones." Cora emerged from the shadows, her voice crushing any thoughts he may have had of defying her. "I suggest you go topside and get us moving; we've a long way to go and the storm is getting worse." Indeed, the boat was already bucking and moaning under the onslaught of wind and rain.

Having been dismissed, Jones cast one last apologetic glance toward Isabelle and released her. Leaving her in Cora's care, he turned on his heel and fled the room.

Neither woman moved, both standing fixed where they were, one in stunned silence and the other sneering triumphantly.

Refusing to be intimidated, Isabelle raised her chin defiantly and said, "You'll never get away with this."

Cora stalked toward her slowly then, and leaning in toward the smaller woman still backed against the wall, she kissed her cheek, making Isabelle squirm with disgust. "That's just it, my dear; I already have."

A vicious smile played on Cora's lips. She had stacked the deck against her son's widow, had called in her favors and laid all of her cards on the table. She had already won, and now it was down to the gloating. Turning her back on her former daughter-in-law, she glided slowly to the table, the crisp rustling of her stiff, black skirt heard even over the din of the gale assaulting the boat. Her shadow engulfed the girl as she passed between her and the lantern to take her place at the head of the table. Seating herself in the captain's chair, she leaned forward and lifted the teapot, pleased to see that it was still hot. After months of endless frustration, order had finally been restored to her domain, and all of the pieces were now in place for the final play.

The shriek of the wind and creaking of the timbers were all that could be heard as she unconcernedly poured each of them another cup of tea, tendrils of steam ghosting over the cups, evaporating in the cold, stale air around them. Slowly she sipped from her own cup, looking over the rim and savoring the impotent glare of the wretched girl before her.

**XXXXX**

It was dark as pitch on the roadway, trees flailing about as loose limbs and fragile leaves gave way to the winds battering them. The rain had started in earnest, and though it offered no deterrence to Daniel, it did concern him that Isabelle was out in it, alone and defenseless against the onslaught of the storm. For all of the advantages his ethereal body gave him, neither his hearing nor his eyesight were better than any mortal man, so he scanned the roadway carefully for his wife, afraid to miss her in the surrounding gloom of nightfall.

He had thought he'd meet Isabelle just before their house, her clothes wet and beguilingly soaked through in the rain. When she wasn't just beyond the trees hiding the dirt road leading to their own little lane, he continued walking toward town. He was angry that she'd insisted on meeting Jones even when the bad weather had come inland much sooner than they'd expected, and now she was late coming home. No doubt, she'd been delayed by turning down yet another invitation to go down the coast with the insufferable blaggard. Well, the next time Jones showed his smarmy face, Daniel would make it clear that his _wife's_ place was at _his_ side, and that further inflictions of the journalist's attentions were unwanted.

Lightening illuminated the underbelly of the clouds above, flashing a low light over the lonely roadway. All was darkness and rain and black forest and mud, and still no Belle. He had just rounded the copse of woodland that opened up to the dairy farm marking half of the journey to town. The ground was past absorbing the torrential rain and the ditches began filling up. Thick mire began sucking at his boots, and wasn't this a _bloody marvelous_ time to find out that he was no lighter on his feet in this state either. Cursing beneath his breath, he moved to the middle of the road, finding that navigating though the center was easier than slogging along the disintegrating sides.

Trudging on in the muck and relentless downpour, he worried that he'd somehow missed crossing paths with Belle. He felt a bit lightheaded and an edgy feeling began to gnaw at him. Shaking it off, he focused on the sodden road before him, knowing the upcoming bend would open on the town and the harbor where she'd agreed to meet Jones. He'd taken only half a dozen steps when he stopped short, the nauseating sensation of fading quaking in his limbs. It was as if he'd stepped over a perimeter, pulling him away from his center. It was the same numbness he'd experienced before when he'd strayed too far from his boundaries, only to materialize at some later time within the confines of the house.

Another bolt of lightening ripped through the clouds, a brilliant flare accompanied by an angry clap of thunder. At that moment, pain gripped Daniel's chest and he fell headlong into the slick sludge. He writhed in agony on the ground for a few seconds before the throbbing sting subsided to a tolerable level, a sense of dread remaining in its wake. Grunting, he pushed himself up on his hands and knees then shakily rose to his feet. Running a hand through his hair, he concentrated for a moment, willing his spirit to find whatever cord tied him to Isabelle, something solid to connect him to her. When he couldn't sense her in any way, he steeled himself, pushing back at the restraints tugging him away from the road, and began running the last few hundred feet around the curve and into the outskirts of Storybrooke.

He looked up the street and saw that the town was mostly blacked out, practically hidden in the deluge. Businesses were closed; a majority of the windows shuttered or boarded up. A handful of scattered homes had braved the wretched squall without taking such precautions, and from them a few panes illuminated the cityscape enough for him to get his bearings. Plunging straight up Moncton Avenue, his head buzzing incessantly, he slid precariously along the slippery street, covering the distance to the harbor. He clamored up the boardwalk and onto the wharf, anxiously reading the names on the tethered crafts, looking desperately for a private boat secured to the moorings, one with some light displayed as a sign that the idiot captain was on board in the tempest assaulting the coast.

Frantically moving from one boat to another in the driving rain, he paused when he reached an empty berth sandwiched between two fishing boats. There, he sensed Isabelle's unmistakable presence, as if the perfume of her essence lingered there.

She had been here… but now she was gone.

Dread gripped him when he realized that Jones had taken her, and she was alone, at sea, in the fury of a maelstrom with a man who wanted her for himself. How could he have been so stupid? Why had he let her come out here on her own? This was his doing; he'd known not to trust Jones, but he'd let Belle's trust of that blaggard cloud his better judgment. He should have stopped her, or at least gone with her. He should _been_ there…

"Belle!" he screamed into the raging torrent, but his voice was all but drowned out by the angry waves and wind and thunder. Dropping to his knees, he began to feel himself melt away.

**XXXXX**

The shocked disbelief that had immobilized Isabelle for the past half hour retreated as fury and fear fought to master her. Killian had left several minutes before, time enough to get the boat under way and pull out from the harbor. Gone was the reassuring sound of the boat thudding against the moorings of the dock, and the jostling of the choppy waves near the shoreline had given way to the gut wrenching swelling and dipping of deep water, feeding the terror already taking root in her. The thought that he would undertake a voyage to Boston during a storm either meant he was being paid very handsomely, or he truly thought she was disturbed and needed immediate help. But why risk such a voyage now when she'd told him she'd be in Boston in two weeks, when he could drop his ruse of friendship in a place closer to his goal: closer to Cora's goal?

She'd kept her eyes trained on her mother-in-law since Killian had left. Garbed in black silk and diamond earrings, the woman was seated regally at a rustic table, in a pitching room in the belly of a boat, sipping tea like a queen at court. She could sense the familiar hostility beneath the benevolent mask Cora wore, and she had no doubt that Mrs. Mills was the reason for her abduction and that the timing was to her specifications. That she had something to gain from this little venture she had no doubt, but what that could possibly be eluded her.

Without looking up, Cora ordered haughtily, "Do sit down, Isabelle; your tea is getting cold."

When several moments passed without the younger woman's compliance, she looked up into her captive's wary eyes and waved her over to the seat next to her with a sly smile. "Come now, dear, I'm sure you have questions."

She waited as Isabelle cautiously walked toward the table and, ignoring the offered setting, took the chair at the opposite end of the table, furthest away from her. Cora was pleased, smelling the trepidation deliciously rolling off of her former daughter-in-law: this was her favorite part of the game.

"Well, dear, what would you like to know first?" she mocked.

Isabelle was shaking, whether from anger or terror she didn't know; they seemed indistinguishable at this point. Taking a deep breath, she pushed her feelings down. Every passing minute took her further from home, and when they made it to Boston, she had no way of knowing when she'd be able to get word back to her little family about where she was and what had happened to her. She needed a way out, a way to get topside to talk to Killian. He would listen to her if he didn't have Cora in his ear. She was still sure she could convince him to turn around and return to Storybrooke before it was too late. Cora wanted something from her, but she had no idea what that might be, so no bargaining chip came to mind. If she knew what her mother-in-law wanted, she might be able to offer her something to make her change her mind… or see the absurdity of what she was doing.

Her voice was low when she finally thought she could speak without trembling. "Why are you doing this?"

"That's a very good question," Cora answered mockingly. "Because you're troubled, dear; vulnerable, overwrought . . . insane."

"You know that's not true," Isabelle responded. "Daniel told me you spoke with him. You know what he is and you know that he's real."

Cora raised her cup to her lips, slowly draining it of the last drops of her tea. She set it down daintily, drawing out the moment. "That's true," she admitted. "We had quite a lovely little chat at your gate. He had maliciously sent my driver away so he could threaten me."

"He warned you to leave us alone. We are no longer a part of your plots. I told you that myself when you came to barter me to a business associate like some commodity you had to trade."

"That's exactly what you were: a _commodity_ to be traded. That's all you ever were." Rising from her seat, she slowly began pacing the floor in the confined room. "Do you really think Gerald would have been interested in a bookish little girl barely out of school? No, dear. We needed to expand our business overseas, so I check around and found your father's rather lucrative little company. It wasn't as expansive as I'd have wished, but then it did have a good network of ports established and a less doting father would have concentrated on his holdings enough to recognize a takeover." Cora shook her head, laughing. "A bit of flirting and a gold ring: it didn't take very much effort to acquire your pretty little hand, nor to distract Maurice with the prospect of being a grandfather. All in all, I'd say your father's life's work came rather cheaply."

Isabelle's face flushed with humiliation at being reminded of her naivety concerning Gerald's courtship of her, and of how easily she'd been won, but the woman would have to do better than this revelation to hurt her; although being taunted about her relationship still had the power to anger her, Isabelle had recognized the truth about her marriage to Gerald long ago.

"So, you got what you wanted from my family, and there's nothing left for you to take," she said calmly. "Just tell me what you want from me now."

"I want _nothing_ from you," Cora scoffed. "What I _did_ want is no longer possible. Blanchard married some other simpering young thing to bring his precious daughter up, and _her_ family now shares his holdings."

Incredulous, Isabelle gaped at her. "So, this is about _revenge_?"

"Of course not, dear," Cora chortled amusedly, "that would be petty."

Confused, her brow furrowed, Isabelle wondered briefly what she had missed. "Then why try to have me committed?"

Cora stopped pacing and turned to face the younger woman, offering her a smug smile. "You aren't going to be committed, Isabelle; you aren't even going to Boston."

"But, Killian said that– "

"What Mr. Jones thinks is what I _want_ him to think," Cora interrupted, fixing Isabelle with a malicious glare. "I needed to get you away from that house, away from your… your _ghost_." Disdain marked her face distinctly. "I have plans and I don't need – _your husband_ – interfering."

"Whatever you're planning won't work; Daniel will come for me once he knows I'm missing."

Cora laughed, amused at the girls' misplaced faith in her flimsy self-appointed guardian. "Really, Isabelle? How do you think I've succeeded all of these years, gotten everything I've ever wanted? I know _people_ , and I know how to exploit their weaknesses. Your captain is at home because _you_ are his weakness, and he is miles and miles away from where you're going because he was stupid enough to presume that you're capable of handling yourself."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Oh, that is _everything_. What people _choose_ to believe is everything. And... I know a thing or two about ghosts," she smiled enigmatically. "After all, I've created enough of them."

The blood in Isabelle's veins turned to ice, dread seizing her at her mother-in-law's confession. "What do you mean?"

Nonchalantly skulking forward, she answered slowly, "I've learned by experience, _child_. A few well-timed demises kept wills or contracts from being altered, allowed for advances in position. Of course, I made sure these things never occurred _near_ me, so the dearly departed had nothing to hold them _to_ me." Stopping in front of her daughter-in-law, she attempted to caress the young woman's cheek, a smug satisfaction settling over her when Isabelle flinched away from her touch.

"My God!" Isabelle gasped. "You've _murdered_ people?"

"I prefer to think of it as making sound business decisions: small sacrifices to steer things in the right direction." Cora laughed as Isabelle blanched, her small hands clutching at her middle and her eyes wide with horror.

Clucking her tongue, drawing power from the girl's fear as well as the knowledge of her successes, she taunted, "Your captain won't be able to help you, dear, I've seen to that."

Cora stood over the younger woman, enjoying the horror radiating off of her. She found the small quaver in her voice and the shallow breaths Isabelle took as her heart raced intoxicating and knew that this – the seconds before snapping her jaws shut on her quivering prey – was the only reason she was telling her anything. She'd never been able to corner one of her victims before, always manipulating things from a safe distance. This revelry in her victory, the act of watching this wretched girl grovel in fear as she began to realize what was going to happen to her was like a narcotic. Leaning over Isabelle, she inhaled the scent of her terror before placing a maternal kiss upon her clammy brow. She licked her lips, finding the taste of terror invigorating

Isabelle recoiled, a chill coursing through her. The continuous movement of the room, the shriek of the wind buffeting the boat all around them and Cora's boast of murder pressed in on her, making her feel faint. She'd always known her mother-in-law was ruthless, but that she was capable of _murder_ – again and again – was a new and terrifying revelation. New realizations began forming in her mind, and connections she'd never have assumed to make suddenly fell into place. She thought of Gerald, and her stomach churned as she asked herself if his death might also have been a 'sacrifice' for Cora. The fact that she was confessing to her now could only mean she didn't expect her to be in any position to divulge that information in the future.

Pushing down the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, she demanded, "If I'm of no further use to you, why do this?"

Cora's skirts swayed around as she turned her back on her, casually making her way the other end of the room. "You're right, dear, you're of no use to me; but, that doesn't mean you don't have something I need."

Upon reaching a trunk set against the far wall, she opened the lid and retrieved a long, rectangular metal box, the kind found in a safe-deposit box, and a pair of immaculate, white gloves.

"You ruined the efforts of three years' planning with Blanchard, and it's quite obvious you have no intentions of furthering our family's interests; but I'm a patient woman, Isabelle," she stated brusquely, returning to the table. "I can wait for a better time and a better – _commodity_ – to seize any future opportunities. In short, my dear – I will wait for Lucy."

Isabelle shot up, overturning her chair as Cora serenely donned the gloves. Speaking between clenched teeth, she threatened, "You stay away from Lucy."

"Oh, Isabelle," Cora admonished without looking up, fitting the fingers on snugly, "you don't think I'd harm my own granddaughter, do you? No, dear, I intend to help her. All she needs is for her mother to stop standing in the way."

"What are you saying?"

"It's quite simple, really." Reaching inside the box, she withdrew a small pistol and had cocked the hammer and pointed it at Isabelle in one move. "You and your _lover_ , Mr. Jones had a nasty little spat on his boat and, in the heat of passion," she smiled maniacally, "he shot you."

Stunned, Isabelle retracted a few steps back. "You're insane!"

The armed woman shook her head, advancing a step forward; stalking her as she slowly retreated, her hand steady and unwavering. "Don't be absurd. Lucy will go to the finest schools, grow up to her greatest potential. When the time comes, I'll find the perfect husband for her. She'll secure the family for generations to come. You've always been a good mother, Isabelle. I'm sure you want what's best for your daughter."

"You'd _kill_ me so you can take Lucy?"

"Come now, dear, it isn't personal," she responded with a benign smile, "it's just good business."

Without warning, the boat tilted starboard, pitching the two women toward the table. Startled, Cora squeezed the trigger, her aim thrown off as she fell to the right against the table. The crack of the pistol catapulted Isabelle into action. Not wasting another moment, she made a break for the door, her momentum slowed by momentary incline of the floor. She reached it, turning the doorknob at the same time she heard an enraged screech from Cora and the distinct sound of the hammer being cocked again. She pulled the door open, the wailing storm suddenly screaming into the room from topside as she threw herself onto the stairs and climbed upward into the melee.

She was near the top, the cold pellets of rain stinging her face, when she felt the bullet burn into her right shoulder, felling her a few steps after she hauled herself onto the chaotic deck of the _Pirate's Heart_.


	22. The Price of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Inspiration: Adagio by Lara Fabian.

The deck was slick from cold rain that seemed to come from every direction at once, and she fought to keep her footing as she half fell over the threshold into what looked like the heart of Hell itself. Turning, she yanked the door closed behind her, praying for every small advantage this might give her over her assailant below deck.

She was soaked to the skin instantly, and a rivulet of deep red blood tracked down her arm, trickling from her fingers onto the plank floor. Her shoulder was on fire, and although she was almost sure the wound was only superficial, Belle found that she wasn't focused properly, and she couldn't discern the precise origin of the searing pain that was nauseating and disabling her. She clutched a hand to the ragged hole in the sleeve of her dress where the bullet had torn through the fabric and the tissue beneath, and her stomach lurched when it came away with a terrifying amount of blood. The warm, clingy consistency and the coppery smell of it mingled with the relentless water that was whipping her face and body and getting in her mouth and nose.

She knew she had to put as much distance between herself and Cora as possible, and she told herself that she had to get away from the door, so she stumbled blindly forward, the pelting rain and darkness and howling wind assaulting and overloading all of her senses at once.

Her knees buckled beneath her as the floor seemed to rise up, the boat riding high on the crest of an unseen wave. Flailing her arms as the motion was suspended for mere seconds, she was flung hard against the empty mast. Wrapping her arms around it, she held on for dear life as the craft dropped some twenty feet before finding temporary purchase on the swells between the waves.

She was trembling uncontrollably all over, and she couldn't seem to still herself or calm her breathing as she pressed her cheek against the dull, damp wood of the mast, terrified and hurting.

"Daniel," she whimpered, _"Daniel!"_ but she knew he couldn't hear her. She'd never needed anyone as much as she needed him now, and he'd never been so far away.

She couldn't risk staying where she was because she was sure that Cora would be up any second to finish what she'd started. The old lady might just as well take her time, though, some morbid part of her reasoning was telling her. There was nowhere to go on this ship; nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. Cora would find her, and she'd kill her the moment that door opened. The next bullet wouldn't miss, so all Isabelle could do was buy herself some time, really.

She felt every muscle in her body clench violently as her limbs hesitated to obey her command to get moving, and she forced herself to let go of the mast. If Cora wanted her, she was going to have to come get her; that much, at least.

Feverishly searching for Killian in the wild darkness, she spotted him in his rain slicker at the helm, his back to her, and she fought her way over to the journalist, stumbling and falling with the rising and plummeting of the vessel, hardly keeping herself upright. Grabbing his sleeve, she wrenched him around. He startled as he pulled away from the wheel and unwittingly seized her arm, making her cry out with pain.

"Isabelle?" he called out, his eyes widening in shock at the sight of the torn and bloodstained sleeve of her dress, and she held on to him fiercely with one hand to steady herself on the rocking deck.

"We have to go back!" she screamed desperately over the din of the storm exploding around her.

Releasing the wheel and letting the vessel drift in the torrent, he stripped off his coat in one fluid motion and effectively threw it around her shivering form, pulling her closer to him and bending to cast a quick glance at the crimson oozing gash in her skin.

"What happened?" he shouted, frantically tugging a handkerchief from his pocket to press on the lesion. "Why are you bleeding?"

"Cora's got a gun!" she cried, anxiously darting a look back over her shoulder at the superstructure.

_ "What?" _ Jones demanded, slowly shaking his head in disbelief, although the proof was at hand and leaking profusely through his fingers.

"She– she shot me!" Isabelle stumbled, shaking violently, her voice high and shrieking, and his breath hitched as her knees buckled and gave in. He gently guided her down onto the lurching floor. "It's alright, love," he soothed, caressing her pale face. Her eyes fluttered closed as she slackened in his arms.

"God," he gasped, "no…"

_ What the hell was going on here? _ he asked himself, doubting his own judgment in the middle of all this insanity. _Why would Cora have a gun? Why would she shoot Isabelle? And what on earth was he doing out here?_

He'd known Cora for years, and yet he'd been gullible enough to believe the old bat when she'd told him that she didn't want to go forward with her plans for her daughter-in-law because the girl had suffered a breakdown. Being the fool that he was, he'd listened to her, and he wouldn't regret anything again in all his life as much as he'd regret this.

The old witch told him that she'd found a specialist in  Boston who could help Isabelle. He'd _trusted_ her and consented to bring her to Storybrooke with him. He'd agreed to trick the woman he loved into coming on his boat, and he'd been utterly, inexcusably irresponsible to take Isabelle out to sea in the worst storm he'd seen in years. He _never_ should have risked sailing right into this tempest with her for _anything_ , but he'd been so totally convinced that he'd be helping her, he hadn't stopped to think beyond the high-handed role he'd seen himself playing in rescuing her from herself.

His heart was pounding in his throat as he brushed back strands of sopping hair from her pallid brow, and he realized that he hadn't been helping her in the least. He'd been lied to and deceived, just as he'd lied and deceived. He wasn't anyone's hero, and the tiny woman lying limply in his arms was going to pay for his self-indulgence and for his vanity, his ludicrous hopes and delusions, for his credulity and his pride – and she was going to pay for it with her life.

Cora's claim that the specialist who could help Isabelle would only see her if she could get to Boston within the next two days had been as much of a tale as anything she'd told him, probably: that she'd shot Isabelle was proof that she'd never had any intention of getting her the medical attention she'd promised. She'd wanted to get rid of her, and he had willingly played her game, played Isabelle directly into her hands.

"Isabelle," he called gently, trying to rouse her. Shaking her when she didn't respond, his chest tightened when she groaned with pain, but he was relieved when she opened her wary eyes.

"I'm sorry, love," he stammered, "I'm so sorry… I'm going to get us out of this somehow."

"I want to go home," she pleaded, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as the world faded in and out in front of her eyes, swirling and going from narrow to black to repulsively close. She tried to focus on Killian's face and became aware of the genuine concern etched in his features.

"Of course," he promised.

She needed a doctor, and they were both in danger. He could easily handle the schooner alone under normal circumstances, but not under these, with no one at the helm. He had to get Isabelle tied down somewhere, and he had to do it fast so he could deal with Cora and maneuver them out of the mess he'd gotten them into. He'd put the harpy overboard if she gave him any trouble without hesitating.

"Just hold on," he yelled, supporting Isabelle.

It was difficult to keep her eyes open with the freezing rain stinging her face and the blood slowly seeping out of her body. She was chilled to the bone and weary beyond anything she'd ever felt.

"I'm so cold," she managed to answer, barely hearing her own voice over the static in her ears and the ferocious roar of the angry Atlantic about them, her lips blue and quivering, "so cold…"

"I'll protect you, love," he promised sincerely, standing and lifting her up with him. "She won't get near you again, I promise."

She had to lean on him substantially, and he had difficulty keeping them both on their feet in the melee. Wrapping her good arm around his neck and pulling her against his chest, Jones took a wide stance to steady them both. There was a good length of heavy rope and a sturdy, sizable chest of fishing tackle secured to the starboard side of the ship near the cleat at the railing; it would provide some cover to a person of her size huddling against it, and he could use the rope to safeguard her from being washed overboard.

He was about to turn and take her there when he stopped short, finding himself faced with Cora. There was a sick, depraved sneer on her lips and a loaded pistol in her hand, and he was certain that she would not think twice about using it.

** XXXXX **

_ Rain.  _

There were sheets of it coming from every conceivable direction.

And _thunder_ – a constant boom of pounding shock waves while lightning skittered sporadically through black clouds.

Slowly, Daniel turned about, disoriented. It was dark, very dark, and he couldn't see much about him, but he felt the unmistakable roll of ocean beneath him. Looking around, he realized he was on a boat in the midst of a storm.

_ The  _ storm _._

The same storm he'd been searching for Isabelle in.

He shook his head to clear the haziness that came when rematerializing after fading away. How long had he been gone? He remembered being at the docks, desperately looking for Isabelle: the horror of realizing she'd been taken from him – taken away in the – _storm_.

She was _here_ , he could feel it.

Turning about on the pitching vessel, he scanned the deck, seeing little more than the resting mast and secured sails, ropes and rigging, all of it swaying erratically in the tempest. He stumbled a few steps forward, flailing about as his ethereal body worked to reincorporate in the material world, tumbling headlong onto the floor when his sluggish legs failed to support him. Frustrated, he lay sprawled in the briny water pooled on the deck, anger and panic seizing him equally as he fought to gain control. He needed to find Isabelle, and he needed to find her _now_.

Stilling, he forced himself to be calm. Closing his eyes, he shut out of his awareness of anything outside himself, his mind searching for an image of his love: the quirk of humor that played about her smile; the golden kiss of sunlight on her chestnut curls; the light spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks; the color of summer sky that shone from her crystalline eyes.

_ There, in those depths of perfect blue he found a place where he could steady himself, focus. Wide, cerulean eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes, crowned by perfect brows anchored his thoughts as his body sought purchase in the corporeal world. Slowly, the din of the storm faded into peaceful static and the thunder became a distant, thudding rhythm, like the warm beating of a heart; the battering, erratic undulation of the sea beneath him gave way to the serenity of floating. In that space of perfect silence, at the exact moment that his name was on her lips, he whispered her name. He saw her in his mind's eye as she stretched out her hand, placing it in his open palm and the connection ripped through him like a thousand volts.  _

_ Fear.  _

_ Pain.  _

_ She was fighting for her life. _

Daniel bellowed in rage, the storm suddenly thundering back into his senses as his vision of his wife abruptly faded, leaving a sense of urgency in its place. Pushing himself up from the flooded deck, he resolutely made his way toward the bow of the ship. His steps were halted by tools and equipment that had spilled from containers in the ceaseless battering of the boat, and bending down, he grabbed up a two-foot length of thick chain lying on the deck amidst some tangled rope and a toppled oil can. Rounding the helm, he saw Isabelle clinging precariously to Killian as he half-carried her across the swaying floor to the starboard side of the boat. She looked ill and abused; her face pale, her sodden dress clinging to her, its sleeve torn and bloody.

Hate for Jones seethed in every fiber of his being. His wife was hurt and at the mercy of the _blaggard_ forcing her to leave her home, her child; forcing her to sail God knew where in this typhoon. He watched as the other man suddenly halted, shoving Isabelle behind him, eliciting a pained shriek from her. With nothing to brace her, she stumbled back a few steps before her feet tangled in her wet skirts and she fell hard against the mast, her arms flailing about for something to grab onto. Jones reached back, grabbing her by one wrist, wrenching her upwards before she landed on the deck.

Watching the journalist shove his beloved pushed the captain into full-blown rage, and with a strangled snarl, Daniel _struck_.

** XXXXX **

Grunting with pain as the chain caught his upper chest and arm, Killian drew back from Isabelle and retreated into the shadows, clutching his abused body in agony. Isabelle cried out again as Killian suddenly released her, falling back as she lost the footing she'd barely regained. Unexpectedly, two strong arms encircled her waist, keeping her upright. Instinctively, she struggled against her captor, pushing against him as she turned to face him.

_ Daniel! _

She burrowed into his chest as he pulled her against him protectively. Trembling with cold and shock, the small woman uttered a cry of relief, clutching his shirt and clinging to him. Daniel held her, rubbing her back comfortingly and whispering words that were undistinguishable in the roar of the angry sea about them, but his presence and the somber, reassuring tones calmed her nonetheless.

"Well, isn't this just perfect," Cora sneered, from behind him, her feverish eyes reflecting amused hate. Daniel wheeled about to face her and saw that she had the black barrel of her pistol pointed at Isabelle. Oblivious to the cold, driving rain soaking through her silk dress and plastering her hair to her head, she moved forward, her aim never wavering.

His eyes trained on the armed woman, Daniel gently disentangled Isabelle's arms from around his neck and stepped in front of her. "You'll not hurt her further," he warned.

"How are you going to stop me, captain?" Cora countered, a malicious smile distorting her features. "You're not really here. A bullet will pass through you will quite effortlessly, and then your little plaything will be dead!"

She was right, and he well knew it. From the looks of her he could see that she was beyond being talked out of her present course, and he'd have to find a way to disarm her. She could pull the trigger faster than he could move toward her, and at present he had nothing he could use to strike the firearm out of her hands. Desperate for a solution, he remembered there had been times when he'd been able to affect objects from a distance, parlor tricks really. Looking at the pistol, he concentrated on wrenching it out of her hand. Cora jerked forward as his efforts touched her, an invisible pull on the pistol, but she held the deadly thing with a firm grip, and her surprised expression quickly gave way to arrogance as he failed to obtain his objective.

"Really, captain," she laughed, "did you think it would be that easy?" Taking a step forward, she cocked the pistol, the sound barely audible in the din of the storm. "I don't know why you're fighting this; after all, you can just go on haunting that ridiculous house with her by your side. That doesn't sound so bad, does it?"

Daniel could feel Isabelle trembling with cold or fear behind him as she stretched up to reach his ear.

"She wants Lucy!" she cried.

"Oh, no," he snarled, his jaw tight. "That'll no' happen." She would _not_ take their child!

"That's where you're wrong; I always get what I want."

"Not this time, you black hearted. . ."

From the shadows Killian lunged, grabbing Cora's dress about the waist, twisting her off balance as she pulled the trigger. The pop of the bullet firing aimlessly into the air was followed by a screech as she turned on her former accomplice, batting at him with the pistol. In blind rage, she struck his hand with the cold, hard metal, drawing blood, satisfied when he released her with a grunt. Momentarily free from his interference, she screeched in frustration as she cocked the pistol, taking aim at this new threat.

Daniel charged from the side. It took him only an instant to come between her and her target. Instinctively, he reached for her as she turned toward Jones, and he snarled dangerously as he plunged his hand into her chest, penetrating flesh and bone to seize her beating heart. Cora dropped the pistol with a clatter, her breath hitching as she felt the ghost's hand clutching her core.

Permitting himself a gloating smile, Daniel yanked his hand out of her body. In his palm lay her life force, resembling a large heart-shaped jewel, red and glowing.

"You'll no' harm anyone anymore," Daniel spat into her shocked face, squeezing the glimmering essence, until it blackened and became brittle dust in his hand to be carried away by the wind whipping at them.

In moments, her face a mask of horror and disbelief, Cora crumpled to the floor, lifeless. Looking down on her, and then at his now empty hand, Daniel shuddered, shocked by what he'd just done, but he didn't regret it. He would never regret it.

"Oh, my God," breathed Killian next to him, "you're real!" His eyes wide, he tentatively reached out and touched Daniel's shoulder, recoiling as his hand met the solid form of the captain.

"Aye, Mr. Jones; so it would seem," Daniel said, narrowing his eyes at the other man before turned back to his wife.

Isabelle was on her knees, her arms wrapped around her waist as she hunched over, silently rocking in the torrent assaulting the deck. Kneeling down behind her on one knee, he gently gathered her into his arms as he tried to comfort and shelter her from the storm raging around them.

For the first time since she'd set foot on the boat, she felt safe. Tears traced a hot path down her cold cheeks as pent up emotions spilled out of her and she clung to Daniel like a lifeline. He _was_ her lifeline. She shuddered when she thought of how close she'd come to losing everything: her family, her freedom, her life. She'd been shocked and morbidly grateful when she'd seen what her husband had done to her former mother-in-law, and she knew beyond any doubt that he'd never allow anyone or anything to threaten their little family. He was solid around her, her back tucked up against his chest, his arms protective around her as her head lay contentedly against his shoulder. She was exhausted, spent and hurt. Her voice was soft and tired, but he was close enough to hear her, "Please, take me home, Daniel."

"Aye, me darlin' Belle," he whispered huskily, his beard welcome and familiar against her ear. Carefully, he rose and pulled her to her feet, mindful of her wounded shoulder. "How bad are ye hurt, love?"

"It's not that bad," she assured him, looking up to meet his dark eyes. "It's stopped bleeding."

"There's me brave lassie," he murmured, resting his forehead on hers, reveling in the feel of her safe in his arms. He knew her; knew that she was, indeed, in pain. It was so like her to put on a brave front and leave the mundane tending of wounds for later. Well, he'd take care of her at home and would see to it she never had cause to be hurt ever again. "Ye best get below, love, and find somethin' dry to put on."

Nodding, Isabelle offered him a brave smile. As tenderly as he could, he supported her sleight weight as they made their way to the door leading below. It was slow going with the rain driving at them and the boat being tossed about in the ocean, but Daniel was sure footed and kept her from collapsing admirably. She was numb with cold and exposure, and she welcomed the thought of going below, getting dry and warm. Her shoulder _had_ stopped bleeding, but it was throbbing and hurt.

Her mother-in-law's lifeless body lay near the threshold and she stopped to look down at her. Cora's eyes were open, unseeing, her expression superior and intimidating. Even in death, the woman still presented a commanding presence. Daniel had told her about his own passage into death, and she wondered if Cora's undaunting spirit was experiencing something similar at this very moment. Perhaps she would be strong enough to resist the pull of eternity and would stay and haunt the vessel she'd met her end on. Sighing wearily, she decided she really didn't care. Stepping around the corpse, she reached for the door knob.

Killian approached sheepishly from the side, his face strained. "Isabelle?" he asked tentatively. He reached for her, but withdrew his hand at her husband's warning growl. "I'm so sorry, love . . ."

"Save yer apologies for later, man," Daniel interrupted. "Let's turn this tub about, Mr. Jones."

"You're right," Jones conceded. To Isabelle he offered, "Cora's quarters are down the stairs and to the left. You should find some dry clothes and some blankets."

Hating the thought of wearing one of Cora's dresses, she grimaced, but that was the least of her worries, and there was no help for it. It would do for now and to walk home in; then she'd burn it.

They made it to the hatchway and Daniel helped her shrug out of Killian's coat, handing it back to the journalist with a wry expression. Daniel gently wrapped her in his arms and, leaning against the door, gave her a lingering kiss, nuzzling her cheek affectionately. He dreaded the thought of letting her out of his sight after coming so close to losing her. Of course, it didn't hurt that his perceived rival looked on, now clearly aware of the fact that Isabelle was his and his alone. Taking the hint, Jones shuffled off to the helm and began occupying himself in determining the homeward direction.

"I'd go down wi' ye to help ye with those wet clothes," Daniel said huskily, "but I'm sure our brilliant captain would have us halfway to  Florida if left to his own devices."

"Daniel . . ."

"Go down and rest," Daniel ordered her fondly. "It'll be a bit of time gettin' home, me darlin', and yer not to stir from below until I come for ye."

"Aye, sir," she answered tiredly, glancing a parting kiss on his weathered cheek. "I'll be waiting for you." Daniel stepped back, cocking his head with a promising grin, and then made his way across the deck to help Jones.

She leaned into the door, pausing only for a few seconds as fatigue seeped through her, draining her of any energy to push the door open to the warmth and relative safety below. At that moment, the boat suddenly stilled, as if it had settled in the one quiet place in all of the  Atlantic . The air itself seemed suspended for the space of a breath, and then boat groaned and began to tilt starboard. She gripped the doorway and widened her stance to keep herself upright.

"Brace yourselves!" Killian bellowed from the wheel near the bow.

The boat swung upward several degrees, precariously tilting the boat to starboard. The blood drained from Isabelle's face as a volley of lightening above them revealed a wall of water about twenty feet high rising over their port side. Her eyes wide with terror, she looked about until she saw her husband turn from the breaking wave to return her shocked expression. "Daniel," she whispered as the wave broke over the boat and the world went black.

** XXXXX **

It seemed an eternity for the vicious water to roll over the schooner. The vessel had listed dangerously, but had righted itself in the aftermath. Daniel realized that he had vanished during the crash of the wave over the boat, and he rematerialized a few feet from Jones. The journalist, who had managed to cling to the helm, was coughing and drawing in ragged breaths. He clapped him on the back, but the man waved him off, letting him know he was alright.

Scanning the deck, Daniel searched for Isabelle, but she was nowhere to be seen. The debris that had littered the boat earlier had shifted to the starboard side of the boat. All was a jumbled mess, and could easily hide his wife's small frame. Looking back to Jones, they silently agreed to make a quick search, with Jones running to look below deck while Daniel started shifting through the items tossed aimlessly about him. Shoving things out of his way, he quickly worked through about half of the menagerie before Jones rejoined him, his eyes grim and anxious.

"She's not below!"

Without a word, they both tore through the remaining items until they came upon Cora's body, the staring eyes and lax jaw mocking them. Daniel felt nothing but repulsion for the woman she'd been, and the thought that she was to blame for everything that was happening made him want to toss her corpse over the railing. There was no time for anger and vengeance, and she was dead, he told himself, so he tried to calm himself, distraughtly raking his fingers through his hair as he always had when he'd still been alive and faced with hard choices.

Jones dropped to his knees and grabbed his hair with both hands, anguish and guilt taking him as he rasped, "she's gone!"

"Get up!" Daniel barked at him, taking note of the sniveling journalist's feeble-heartedness and slipping stability. "Get up and get this thing to port, Mr. Jones!" and the other man started to gather himself, nodding slowly.

Then, without warning, Daniel vanished into the abyss. As the inky blackness closed over his head, he sought that same center of calm that had led him to Isabelle earlier, determined to find her before it was too late.

** XXXXX **

The water had slammed into her without mercy, the floor seeming to fall away from her as the boat threatened to capsize. She grappled about the doorframe with frantic fingers, finding no real purchase to cling to until her hand latched around the door knob. She hung onto it desperately, hoping to ride out the wave. Holding her breath, the water kept coming and coming, the pressure battering her already weary limbs.

_ "Hold on, hold on, hold on . . ." _ she thought.

Some unseen object struck her chest in the deluge rushing over her and broke her hold, the water carrying her limp form over the railing and out into the churning waters of the  Atlantic . She thrashed about in the menacing current as it pulled and tumbled her like a puppet dangling from a string. The weight of the water threatened to crush her, and her lungs began to scream, searing with the need to expel the air trapped inside them and she panicked.

_ "No, no, no, no, no," _ she screamed in her head. Seconds felt like hours as the current held her in its grip, dragging her under and further away from the relative safety of the boat, but she was unable to offer any resistance. Her head felt ready to burst when she was suddenly thrust upward to break the surface of the ocean. Icy rain stung her face, contrasting with the warmer ocean water she was submerged in. Coughing and sputtering, she gratefully gulped in the frigid night air, though it was a difficult task as the briny water roiled around her, forcing her to draw in air and water in almost equal parts.

Isabelle treaded frantically, rising and falling, the undulating ocean tugging at her heavy skirts. She turned about looking for any sign of Killian's boat in the darkness, finally spotting it some fifty or sixty yards away when another volley of lightening illuminated the sky.

"Daniel!" she screamed. "Daniel!" Salty water caught in her mouth, choking off her next cry. She coughed, expelling the foul liquid. "Daniel," she called out weakly, her voice hoarse, barely audible. She was scared, and her arms and legs felt like lead as she fought to stay afloat in the turbulent water. She was so tired, so very tired, and her shoulder ached insufferably. When next the light flickered across the belly of the clouds, she despaired that the boat seemed even further away than it had been. She had no sense of direction, didn't know whether she was being swept out to sea **,** or toward the shore, but one thing she was certain of: she was running out of time.

A wave rushed over her head and she sank beneath it, swallowing water as she faltered below. Frantic, she doubled her efforts and fought her way back up, pushing her tired limbs until she broke the surface again. It seemed impossible to take a breath and she gagged, her stomach heaving with her chest as she spew. When her lungs had somewhat cleared, she gulped the air greedily, sobbing when she was finally able to draw breath.

_ Lucy, _ she thought, _will grow up without a mother._ She'd miss everything. She wouldn't be there to see the woman her daughter would become, see her become a bride, have children of her own. She wouldn't be there to teach her and guide her and enjoy her. She shook her head, forced these thoughts away and screamed in frustration. She knew her love would be searching for her, and she rallied on that thought. "Daniel!" she croaked, " _Daniel!_ "

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and seconds later the sky lit with a flash of light over the direction she'd thought the boat had last been. She saw nothing of it, despair stabbing at her with the realization that she was completely cut off from help. _"Daniel?"_ she whimpered.

Isabelle was at the end of her rope, and she hardly felt her limbs now, faltering as she involuntarily ceased her movements. She tried to relax and float, but her long, heavy skirt tugged her downward until the black water closed over her face and she was forced to push herself above the surface in panic, unable to rid herself of it. She noticed that the rain was beginning to slack off a bit as some break in the storm settled over her. Beneath her, the ocean continued its rhythmic dance of swelling and falling, swelling and falling, lulling her into a peaceful sort of daze as she settled into a pattern of minute movement from arms and legs she barely felt any more.

Her thoughts were growing sluggish and a kind of equanimity settled over her. _Cora is dead and Lucy is safe_. If Isabelle didn't return, then Martha would take care of her little girl; would raise her daughter as she had raised Isabelle. Mr. Shelton would see to it that the money from the book would provide for them, and the house would go to Lucy under Martha's safekeeping. Daniel would watch over them, she was sure of it. Lucy was his child now, and he'd protect her. _Yes,_ she thought, _if I don't make it, it will be enough_. But… she didn't want it to be. She didn't want to die – she wanted to live.

_ Daniel, please help me! _

She wondered if she had what it took to resist the next world and stay with him, stay with Lucy. What would happen if she didn't, and she had to go on without him? She didn't think she could bear eternity without him.

For just a moment, she felt as if his hand gently caressed her and she smiled serenely. Fear melted away from her as she saw his weathered face hovering over hers, strangely illuminated as if he was made of light, and his familiar lips were quirked in an amused smile, his dark eyes warm and tender.

_ So tired _ . She had no more strength to struggle against the ocean beckoning her into the deep. Everything hurt and breathing was too difficult. Sighing, she relaxed and lay back.

_ Daniel _ was her last thought as her eyes closed, and she quietly slipped beneath the surface of the ocean.

** XXXXX **

He was suspended in total darkness.

He sensed there were currents swirling about him, forces of titanic power able to lift and tear apart great vessels as well as carelessly toss behemoths asunder. Had he life, he would have been crushed in no time, but his surreal body was still and unaffected by the surging water. Though no forces tore at him, he found himself at the mercy of the unreckonable deep all the same. What senses he did have were rendered frustratingly useless. He saw nothing around him and in his hearing were only the muffled sounds that came with submersion and the storm's distant rumble overhead.

He was only a few feet under the surface of the ocean. Above him, the waters suddenly lit in patterns of green and gray as lightening flashed through the canopy. The brief illumination revealed nothing, and he had the sense that all of heaven and earth mocked him in his search of the vast abyss.

Concentrating on his memories of Isabelle as he had earlier, he relaxed and sought the link between them. He drifted for what seemed like an eternity, remembering the first tingle of warmth he'd felt from her lips after he had bound himself to her; the touch of the silky smoothness of her skin beneath his fingertips and the earthy sound of her ever present laughter. He had memorized every detail of her face, the small sprinkling of freckles, the turn of her nose, the eyes that could look through the shadows and see him. . .

_ Daniel _ . . .

_. . .Isabelle!  _

He sensed that she was completely spent, and strangely, dangerously at peace. Stretching to find the life force providing the slender thread connecting them left him floundering, empty handed. For the first time since he'd found her under attack on _Pirate's Heart_ , he couldn't sense her at all and he began to panic.

Cursing, he pushed back the rising tide of fear and forced himself to calm down. _"Isabelle,"_ his mind whispered to her, straining to find her. The silence in return was deafening, but he waited. _"Isabelle . . ."_

At last, a tiny, silken thread responded to his call and he sensed that she might be dreaming, content and serene. He sank deeper into himself and cautiously reached out, taking hold of the slender line tying them together. Touching it, he turned about and opened his eyes, visually seeing what his mind had already discerned.

The thread shimmered in the inky blackness surrounding him, a thin sliver of light tinged in blue running in a serpentine path away from him and disappearing from view into the darkness only few feet away. He released the fragile filament lest it dissolve in his hand and he lose the only thing leading to her. Swimming along beside side it, the cord began to brighten, becoming more luminous as he followed its length. Tendrils began to stretch out from its core, floating delicately in the swirling currents about him. They rubbed against him, feeling pleasant and inviting. Down, down he swam along the trail, the radiance growing brighter and bigger as he went.

There was a familiarity about it, and it began to caress him, exuding a peace about him as the light ceased to be distinguishable from the substance in which he was submerged. He began to feel serene, almost euphoric in the cocoon it wrapped him in. There were no cares or concerns in this tranquil place, and he wondered what had agitated him so just moments before. Looking at his hands, he was only mildly surprised that the glow had begun to penetrate them, and now the luminosity was under his skin, his hands tingling and warm as the iridescent haze claimed him.

Something moved below him in the water, distracting for its familiar lines and a sense of great importance his spirit attached to it. It was a woman, not swimming in the depths, but graceful nonetheless in the way she floated about in the currents of the water. The dazzling brightness was caressing her, too, holding her protectively, and waiting for her release. Daniel saw that she was beautiful, almost angelic, her skin like porcelain in the quiet luminescence, her dark hair floating about her like a delicate, feathery halo. He drew closer to her and touched her bluish lips, so perfect in their symmetry, his hands sensitive to the cold blush that Death had settled on her.

He wanted so badly for her to open her eyes. He knew they'd be as blue as the summer sky, and that humor and love would engulf him when she looked at him. That she was the other half of his soul he knew instinctively, and he longed to taste her, to slake the thirst he felt for her. Brushing aside the strands of hair hovering about her face, he pressed his lips to hers.

Isabelle!

Anxious now, he shook of the seductive effects of the _netherlight_ , the pleasant euphoria retreating from him as he grabbed Isabelle's cold arms and shook her soundly. Mere seconds ago, she had been struggling at the surface, fighting to stay above the quiet death that now embraced her, and he knew he had little time to bring her around. She was so still, so unresponsive as she hovered in the chasm between life and death. Patiently, persistently, the _netherlight_ gently wrapped it tentacles around her silent form, weaving around and between them, soothingly gathering them both into itself.

_ "Get back!" _ he snarled, terrified for her. Clutching Isabelle's inert from against his chest, he closed his eyes and desperately thought, _"home."_

The light appeared to be penetrating her skin, lending it a cool paleness that was beautiful and strangely natural. He would lose this battle in the span of a few breaths, breaths his love so desperately needed. He wrenched away from the glow, pulling her free of it, relieved when it briefly retreated from her skin.

_ "Home."  _

He was near despondency when he suddenly felt the loamy sand under his feet, and he realized he had materialized near the shoreline, Isabelle in his arms and away, for the moment, from the pull of eternity. The currents surged violently around him, tugging at Isabelle's body and causing her to thrash about in his arms. Holding her securely, he trudged forward, walking up and out of the sea and back into the violence of the storm, finally leaving the hungry tide behind him as he came up on their own little beachfront. Dropping to his knees, he gently deposited her onto the sandy mud.

He turned his wife onto her side and then hoisted her up in his arms with her back against his chest. Wrapping his arms just under her ribs, he jerked upwards several times, trying to get her to cough up the water now filling her lungs. "Come on, darlin', come back to me!"

As he worked, the light rose up from the waves, wafting elegantly over them, gathering and swirling about them like the tentacles of some great sea creature. It formed an ethereal fog to settle over the pair and, growling, Daniel swatted at the intruder, cursing it with one breath and coaxing Isabelle to return to him with the next.

The light spiraled up over their heads into a sphere of concentrated density, and then exploded like a nova, showering them in shards of brilliant sparks before it coalesced into a tight bubble around them, sheltering them from the storm; and in that moment, time stopped. Daniel ceased his ministrations to his wife and lay her slender form down on the damp, sludgy sand and gazed upon her pale face, her lips cold and blue and her hair haphazardly strewn about her. Time was not moving in this moment, but he felt the life ebbing away from her all the same. "Isabelle, ye must waken up, love," he pleaded.

From the top of the protective dome dropped a single, glittering orb of golden brilliance, delicate as a fairy. The entity hovered above her for a heartbeat and then absorbed itself into her body, penetrating her skin and settling inside of her. In that instant, her spirit separated from her flesh, and the intangible soul that was Isabelle found herself sitting beside her husband enveloped in the perfect light. Holding her hands before her face, she was mildly surprised to see them appear somewhat airy, as if made from the intense glistening that surrounded them. Daniel seemed only slightly less comprised of this matter than she did, and she wondered why he'd have such a somber expression when she herself felt blissfully content. Reaching out, she gently caressed his scruffy cheek, and grabbing her small hand in both of his, he pressed his lips to her palm, resting his face in her open hand.

_ "Daniel," _ she breathed. The pure joy she felt seemed out of sorts with his stressed demeanor, but she wasn't sure how to comfort him. Looking about them, she saw her body lying motionless upon the sand, as substantial as she was insubstantial. _"How very strange,"_ she thought. It occurred to her that she should probably be distressed by the sight, but then her attention was diverted back to her love.

_ "Daniel?"  _ Something _was_ wrong, but she was certain it had to do with _before_ and not _now_.

Daniel lifted tearful eyes to her, his face a mask of pain. "Isabelle, ye must waken up, love," he begged.

"Why?" she smiled. "We're together, forever."

Cupping her face in his hand, he rubbed his thumb across her silky cheek and over her inviting lips. _So very tempting_. He could claim her here, leave the world behind and journey with her into the realm of infinity, and into an endless adventure. They would be together, forever, just as they'd promised one another, with no obstacles or objections, no cares or concerns. He hadn't begun his own journey yet, but the _netherlight_ had shown him much in its brief encounters with his soul, and he _knew_ there was nothing to fear in this new existence; in fact, there was much to be gained.

Except that he also knew it was not Isabelle's time to take this journey. She had so much left to do with her life, and he would not let her give it up without a fight. As his mind was made up, the light retreated from him. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he shook her. "Belle, love," he said urgently, "Ye must listen to me now; ye canna go; Lucy needs ye."

"Lucy. . ." she whispered, realizing he was right, "Oh, my God, Lucy!" Her mind suddenly focused on what was happening to her. Her body, cold and disheveled, was lying on the ground and losing its battle for life. Scared, her eyes wide, she gasped, "Daniel, what do I do?"

"Ye have to waken up, love!"

Wrenching away from him, she turned and lay over her inert body. Wrapping her arms about her own small frame, she tried to sink back inside of herself. She was face to face with the still form below her, gazing down on closed lids and icy lips. This was her _body_ , she realized, and she wasn't breathing. Stretching out her arms, she found her hands and entwined her ethereal fingers through the digits of her physical counterpart. Concentrating, she willed herself to reunite with her flesh.

Nothing happened.

Around her, the light began to grow brighter and the silky tendrils renewed their tender caress. Cursing them, Daniel swung at them, pushing them back, only to have them swirl about airily and settle down in a thick fog about them.

"This isn't working," Isabelle whispered dejectedly. Pushing up, she knelt beside him again. Looking at his pained expression, she realized she was helpless to remedy the situation. Her lips trembling, she attempted to draw a breath only to realize she wasn't breathing at all. Fear gripped her as the finality of the situation settled on her, her thoughts a-jumble with loss and uncertainty. With the rise of her emotions, the _netherlight_ seemed to double its efforts to sooth and calm her, and the tendrils of luminosity flitted about her, stroking her with warm fingers, slowly coaxing her to trust it, to lose herself in the peace it offered her.

"Belle!" Daniel grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. She responded with a sigh, a dreamy look on her face. Daniel felt a horrible dread when he realized that the battle for her life was one she wouldn't win, that her body would soon pass the point of no return; neither could he drive the entity away from her.

"No!" he bellowed, struck by the wrongness of her sacrifice. Again, anger at Cora roared to life within him. How dared she put Belle through this? How dared she end Isabelle's life when this beautiful heart had so much to live for, and how could she deprive Lucy of a mother? Isabelle had only just begun to live, to _really live_ , and she deserved to go on living. She _would_ go on living, he decided, she simply had to, and he was going to make sure of it.

He had fought the light many times since his own death, and he'd always managed to keep it away. He'd never known how he'd done it, but looking at his lovely wife, he knew she lacked the inner strength and willpower to drive it back; it wasn't her fault, because she had a lot of strength and determination in her, more than most – but very few people had that quantum extra that he did, and that was how it was _meant_ to be. Death wasn't a foe to be defied, but a powerful force to lead men towards their Destiny. It had come for her, and it would take her; and he'd be forced to let her go, to stay behind and watch over their daughter. He couldn't let that happen. She had becomehis incentive, his whole purpose for existing, butshe deserved to be free to live her own life to the fullest. _The next world was determined to have its way_ , he thought, but that wasn't going to happen. In that moment he resolved to make a deal.

"Take me," he spat to whatever Entity governed this guide to eternity. Looking up into the dome of breathtakingly pure irradiance covering them, he clenched his jaw angrily. "I said, take me, do ye hear? But ye leave her here!"

The _netherlight_ stilled and then withdrew from Isabelle's ethereal form, causing a gasp to escape her. Rising up and away from her, it swirled over her head as it brightened and coalesced before descending abruptly upon Daniel. It penetrated and claimed him, and the warm glow that had been Isabelle only moments earlier was now her husband in her stead.

"Daniel, what are you doing?" Isabelle objected.

Offering her a pained smile, he gently shushed her. "It's alright, love."

"No, it's not!" she countered tremulously. "Don't leave me!"

"Me darlin' Belle," her name like a prayer he clung to. Cupping her face in his hands, he was nearly lost in the eyes he loved so well, anguished at the tears they were brimming with and the hurt he was causing her on top of everything else that had happened. Wiping at the droplets spilling onto her cheek, he smiled sadly and said, "We both knew this day would come."

"There has to be another way! I can't live without you, Daniel, I can't!"

"Aye, ye can, my love, and ye _will_." Moving his hands down to her shoulders, he drew her to him fiercely, reveling in the feel of her, wanting to memorize the touch, the essence of her to take with him. Resting his bearded cheek against her own soft flesh, he drew in the fragrance of her skin and her dark, silky hair. Speaking softly into her ear, he murmured, "Ye gave me back me son; do ye think I'd not do the same for ye? Besides, do ye truly think I donna love Lucy as much as ever I did Bae? A man does what he must to protect his family, and our daughter needs her mother."

"Daniel!"

He shifted her in his arms, willing her to gaze up into his eyes, still so earthy even as his body was bathed in the _netherlight_ that had finally claimed him. There was so little time, and so many things he wanted to say to her. He knew better than to tell her not to mourn him; she was half of his soul, and she would feel as incomplete without him as he would while he waited for her. Instead, he wanted to free her to make the most of who she was.

"I want ye to live, Belle, to _really_ live; do everything ye want to do, go everywhere, see the world like I did, and show it to Lucy!" He smiled at her, his eyes ablaze with pride as he continued, "Ye've a fine way with words, Belle of mine, and I expect ye to have plenty to tell me when ye come to me."

Nodding tearfully, she whispered, "I will; and if you can find a way back. . ."

"I will if I can," he promised.

They stilled, locked in one another's eyes, earth and sky mingled in the silent glow of eternity dancing about them, hovering and isolating them from the realm of life.

"I won't say goodbye," she determined stubbornly.

"Nor, I," he grinned, "but I will say good night." Passionately, he pulled her to him, claiming her sweet lips with his own. She clung to him, a strange and comforting warmth tracing a path over her from where their lips and tongues joined, back and around her shoulders and down her chest where he was flush against her. Locking her in his embrace, he rose up on his knees and shifted her back, laying her gently down, pressing her to lie on her back and covering her with his own body.

Her eyes closed and she began to feel heavy, drowsy, fought against the overwhelming desire to sleep; she wanted to stay here, in this moment with him for as long as she could, but she felt herself floating downward into darkness. Her arms and legs felt leaden and settled heavily on the ground as she felt Daniel quietly, reluctantly pull away from her.

_ "Waken up, Belle." _

Icy pellets of rain pelted her as violent coughing wracked her chest. She turned over in the gritty sand as her lungs heaved up the brackish water she'd breathed in.

The wind and rain lashed furiously at her, and the roar of the ocean and the rumble of the clouds assaulted her senses as the protective bubble she'd been in vanished as if it was never there. Hunched over on the beach, she gagged until her body ached, until water and bile were expelled from her lungs and stomach and her heart resumed its normal rhythms. Shaking from cold and shock and loss, she raggedly drew in several breaths of the salty air assaulting her cold and battered body. Pushing up from the sand, she turned about in every direction, looking.

"Daniel?" she cried, grief seizing her as she realized he was gone, "Daniel!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very heartfelt thank you to my wonderful beta and chief encourager, OneMagician. You are a genius at finding synonyms for light, expressions for raw emotion and repetitious words, and I couldn't have done this without you.


	23. To Where You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Inspiration: To Where You Are by Chloe Agnew

** Storybrooke ** ** ,  ** ** Maine ** ** , April 1925 **

Isabelle stood on the balcony, looking down the road from town for the tenth time that morning, willing the energetic form of her dark haired daughter to appear on the greening pathway. Huffing impatiently, she turned her attention skyward to the gray-blue clouds over the turquoise ocean. Thankful the spring weather at least promised to behave, she smiled appreciatively as a warm southern wind swept gulls and terns back to the northern climes. The harbor beyond was alive with the usual collection of fishing boats putting out to deeper waters, the various sails of scruffy old boats competing with sleeker, more modern vessels, congenial in the plenty the ocean yielded to their harvests. Spring grass had begun to push through the soil, although it would be a few weeks before the first buds would pop open in the flowerbeds. The scene before her was as pretty as a picture, and she smiled at the thought of taking a walk with Lucy along the beach to gather its treasures as she had when she was a little girl. It would be a beautiful day for a visit.

Lucy was five weeks away from finals and graduation from  Simmons  College in  Boston . Having grown up independent and well traveled, she had thrived at school, but they both relished the holidays she spent in her beloved childhood home by the sea. She was currently on Easter Break, and had insisted on making the long trip from school on her own, rather than meeting Isabelle in  Boston and taking the train home with her. Her last letter had hinted at a surprise she had for her mother and Martha, and she admonished her that she was now "a woman full grown and perfectly capable of making the trip to Storybrooke" alone.

Isabelle took another peek down the roadway, sighing again at the lack of Lucy.

Deciding that watched pots never boiled, as the saying went, she walked back into her bedroom, closing the French doors behind her. Moving to stand before the mirror, she checked her appearance once more, looking critically at her stylish dress with its drop waist and pleated skirt falling just below her stocking clad calves. A white silk blouse peeked out from the v-neck, hidden behind a row of buttons closing the front.

Her dress was blue, as always. She had taken to wearing blue as her mourning color and it had stuck. The captain had hated the black dresses she'd dutifully worn after Gerald's death, and she refused to wear anything that reminded her of her mother-in-law. Daniel always preferred her in blue dresses, saying the color of sea and sky well suited her; it was his color, and she wore it almost exclusively.

Stepping up closer to the mirror, she smoothed over the loose bun that framed her face attractively. She often laughed at the dizzying change of fashions that had occurred in the last ten years, as hemlines had risen, and silk stockings and heeled shoes came into vogue. Less fabric in dresses and undergarments had taken some getting used to, but she was, after all, a modern woman. She resolutely drew the line, however, at cutting her hair in the fashionable 'bob'. Shorter hair had also become the standard for beauty, but she couldn't bring herself to cut her chestnut locks. So, there, she was _almost_ a modern woman.

Looking at her reflection, she could see that, physically, she had changed little during the years since she'd come here; she was a little older, perhaps, but she was still slender and pretty. Her cerulean eyes still twinkled with mischief and humor, but now they were also tempered with the wisdom and experience that had come with life and loss. She was no longer the naïve and inexperienced girl who'd married Gerald Mills, but a woman who'd had traveled extensively and gotten to know so many people and places Gerald's girl-bride could only have dreamt of. She'd made the acquaintance of dignitaries and railroad workers, prime ministers and maids, suffragettes and senators, and she'd learned to put herself in their shoes, learned to communicate skillfully and confidently with whomever she'd encountered on her journeys.

She had published eleven biographies and numerous articles and made a name for herself that had nothing to do with the person she'd been before she'd come to Storybrooke. Twice, she had spoken to Congress on behalf of women obtaining the right to vote, and once she'd been to tea at the White House; something that would have driven Cora Mills crazy, had she been around to see it – had she ever been sane to begin with. Isabelle got a lot of satisfaction from the fact when she thought back, although she hadn't accomplished what she had to prove her worth to the old witch post mortem.

After Lucy's graduation, they planned to take a trip to  Europe , a fulfillment of her promise to Daniel to show their daughter a bit of the world. They were free to do so, after all, and Isabelle's work provided the means to that freedom – her work… and Daniel's sacrifice.

Thinking of her husband, her eyes drifted to his portrait above the mantle. In truth, he was never far from her thoughts, and she often spoke to him in her inner musings as if he was in the room with her. Gazing at his still likeness, her breath caught momentarily as she took in his rugged features, each line and nuance etched permanently in her memory. His brown eyes held her as tears stung her own, the half-amused smile in the portrait beguiling a sad one from her in response and a dull ache that constricted her chest. _All these years, and it never got any easier._ Drawing in a ragged breath, she wished that he could be here with her, waiting for their daughter to walk up from town. He'd tease her about her nerves and then perhaps pull out the book of sketches Lucy had given her last year, bragging about the girl's brilliant talent until the distraction gave way to the visitor's appearance. He'd always had a way of taking her mind for a stroll, whenever her heart had needed air.

"Daniel," she whispered into the silence, listening pensively against all hope after eleven years of it, but there was no answer.

Isabelle hadn't been completely lonely without Daniel; she'd been far too busy to be lonely, but there were times when the stillness came, at night, during morning tea which she still took in their bedroom, and at times like this, when she felt the loss that was the piece of her soul that he had been. It was rather like the chipped tea cup memorialized on the bedroom mantel below his portrait; a vessel worthy and useful but incomplete.

She had thought back on that night many times, wondering how things had gone so terribly wrong in so short a time. A friendly parting had turned into a nightmare and Daniel had come to save her, only to be lost himself. He had forfeited his own existence in this world for her, for their daughter; he had given her life back to her, and a chance at living it as she saw fit. He had done it without a moment's hesitation because he had loved her.

This room had become Isabelle's sanctuary. She hadn't left it for the first week after loosing Daniel, ill from grief and from her near drowning. She'd cocooned herself in blankets upon their bed, wrapped in memories that were too few and yet enough to fill a lifetime. Hours spent cycling between tears of separation and dreams of being together had left her drained and empty, but, in the end his steady gaze from the portrait across the room had served as her anchor between the realities of having and wanting.

In those first days, Lucy and Martha consoled her, all of them distraught by the loss of a father, friend and spouse. They had drifted in and out of the room, caring for her, reading to her, holding her while she wept. She'd slept fitfully and ate little. Her body, battered and bruised from her ordeal, had kept her confined to a bed that now seemed so empty.

When she'd finally ventured to walk a bit, she'd wandered out to the balcony to caress the banged up old telescope or cast her eyes out over the endless ocean. Vainly scanning the shoreline, she'd tried to pinpoint the exact spot where Daniel had brought her up from her watery grave and traded his life for hers, but the wind and rain had washed away all traces of that moment. Not even a footprint remained to bear witness to what had happened there, and she knew that the sea would forever keep the secret.

The necessity of fulfilling her contract had forced her to make the trip to  Boston , albeit one week later than originally planned. To that end, she'd left Lucy in the care of Mrs. Lucas and made the journey with Martha.

_ The Dark One's Dagger _ had been released on time despite her own delay and, much to the delight of Mr. Hopper, the public was completely taken with the unvarnished life of Captain Daniel Gold and captivated by the delicate lady who had written his story. Isabelle made the perfunctory rounds required of an aspiring author, attending receptions arranged for her benefit. Her publishers had expected the biography to be well received, but even they were astonished when several reporters approached her for interviews and, within days, articles began circulating all over  New England , extolling the talent of the beautiful Belle French. Accompanying each article was a copy of the enigmatic photo Killian had taken of her on the beach.

The popularity of the book grew and the two weeks she'd been scheduled to promote it turned into an additional two weeks that included a trip to  New York as well. The young widow graciously held her own during these activities, only succumbing to the fresh and raw grief of losing Daniel in the privacy of her room each night. Isabelle's readers and the press found her engaging and witty, a fresh personality to celebrate, but there were also glimpses of the melancholy that settled on her at times. A demure smile and tear brightened eyes as she spoke of her captain left the impression that the author had become enamored with the man who'd died before she had even purchased his home, an oddly romantic notion that charmed those who spoke with her.

Over time, _The Dark One's Dagger_ continued to do very well and was still in demand, and she'd been kept busy throughout the successive years. She'd spent a great deal of time with her nose buried in books, researching and learning, and had traveled all over the country to interview interesting people. All people were interesting and unique in one way or another, she'd come to understand, and her life was filled with voices and faces, events and challenges, rallies and quiet conversation. She'd often taken Lucy with her in her travels, and the ever resourceful Martha had become her social secretary, arranging her itinerary when traveling and running the house when they were home.

So, the years passed and Isabelle prospered, but the thing that had always remained foremost in her mind was her desire to be reunited with Daniel.

She had hoped he would have found a way to return to her, but months turned into years and he hadn't. The ceaseless tides marked the flow of time, seasons changed hands and nights became too numerous to count, and still she waited. There were moments, though, when Isabelle thought she heard the timbre of his voice in the ebb and flow of the sea as she walked the deserted stretch of beach in the eventide; and sometimes, when a cool breeze wafted through the balcony doors, she was sure she felt the shiver that oft accompanied his presence, only to turn and find herself completely alone. She saw him only in her dreams, just fleeting glimpses or stolen kisses, but every morning she woke to a cold bed and empty arms.

And occasionally, she'd wake to find the windows raised and the balcony door ajar.

XXXXXXXXXX

Isabelle had given up looking for her daughter and was busy helping Martha in the kitchen when Lucy finally burst through the front door calling out for her. Rushing into the foyer to meet her, the two older women pulled her into their embraces in front of the open door, adding their own voices to hers in delighted greetings.

Releasing her, Isabelle held her at arms length to take her in. The shy child that had first entered this house so many years before was gone, and before her stood a confident and beautiful young woman. At twenty, Lucy had inherited Gerald's height and her mother's delicate features. Her dark hair was fashionably cut and practically hidden beneath a white, cloche hat that rested above large, mischievous eyes of golden brown. She wore a traveling dress and coat in navy, and a pair of Mary Jane's in similar hue. A doleful smile tugged at her lips as the mother in her realized her daughter was grown now and would soon be ready to face the world on her own terms.

Laughing so she wouldn't disconcert the other woman with her tears, she pulled Lucy closer to her, overjoyed to have her home again, if only for a few days. There had been enough tears, and this was a time for happiness. Lost in the moment, she was startled to hear a male voice intrude on their reunion.

"Pardon me, darling, but where do you want these bags?"

Standing in the doorway with a collection of assorted travel bags at his feet was a tall young man, dressed sharply in a gray suit with his hat in his hand. He was singularly handsome with even features, the steeliness of his blue eyes softened by a kind, almost boyish grin, and his blonde locks were curly even with his hair cut short. He had the peculiar posture of a man used to balancing on the balls of his feet, and he stood before her in a relaxed military stance as if awaiting an inspection.

The author had a keen instinct about people when she first met them, and she could see in him the mix of confidence in who he was tinged with the nervousness over _she'd_ think him to be. They all stood in silence as she made a quick study of the man her daughter had brought home. He met her gaze respectfully and without flinching.

She liked him instantly.

Lucy stepped around her and, taking his arm, drew him back toward her mother. "Mama, I'd like you to meet Ensign James Nolan."

James shook her hand, offering a crooked grin. "A pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

"Yes, well . . ." she returned, accepting his hand. It was strong, confident and calloused, a working man's hand. "A pleasure to meet you, too, Ensign Nolan," she smiled.

"Oh, mama, call him James," Lucy chimed in brightly, "after all, we're going to be married." Lucy laughed as her mother gasped and looked at Martha. Both women wide-eyed and speechless. "Don't just stand there, mama, say something!"

"I . . . I . . ," Isabelle stammered, still smiling, before throwing her arms around the happy young woman, her little girl. "Of course, how wonderful! When did this happen?"

"It hasn't happened yet, ma'am," James laughed, "but Lucy assures me it will be soon."

Leveling a stern eye on her daughter, Isabelle admonished, "Lucy . . ."

"It's alright, Mrs. Mills," James interrupted, sharing an affectionate look with the younger woman, "I'm agreeable to it."

"Well come inside and tell us all about it," she said sensibly, ushering them into the parlor. "How did you meet?"

Isabelle seated herself in a chair while Lucy led James to the settee and settled in next to him. "Some of the girls and I went to a Meet Up about four months ago, and there he was, hovering next to the punch bowl while everyone else danced."

Taking both of James hands in her own and gazing up at him adoringly, she continued, "He just stood there, almost at attention, just watching me dance song after song."

"Of course I did," he grinned, "you were the most beautiful girl in the room."

Lucy blushed prettily. "Well, as I said, he just stood there while I danced with one fella after another, and then he winked at me."

He drew her hands to his lips and planted a soft kiss on her knuckles. "I had to get your attention somehow, I'm a terrible dancer."

Withdrawing her hands, Lucy reached up to unpin and remove her hat while she continued. "So, after shamelessly flirting with me, I let him walk me to my dorm. We've been seeing each other ever since. And now, I've decided I like him so much that we simply must be married." Turning bright eyes to her mother and her oldest friend, she shrugged and said, "So, here he is for you to get to know him before he asks for my hand."

Martha shook her head. "You're as impertinent as ever, young lady." It was true, and everyone laughed. "Needless to say, we've got a few days to get acquainted, so you two get settled in and I'll have dinner on the table in a few minutes."

"If you don't mind," James stood, stretching, "I'd like to take Lucy's bags upstairs and freshen up. It's been a long trip."

"Of course," Isabelle answered, "and you may stay in the guest room at the end of the hall."

"I don't want to put you out," James protested. "I'll take a room in town."

"You'll do nothing of the sort", Isabelle admonished. "We've plenty of room and it will give us more time to get acquainted."

While James lugged their belongings upstairs and Martha darted off to the kitchen, Isabelle and Lucy finished setting the table. Soon, they were all seated, catching up on one another's lives.

Isabelle watched the two young people interact over dinner and throughout the rest of the evening with great interest. Lucy, as spirited and strong willed as ever, was doing well in her studies in art and literature at Simmons, and had planned on nothing further than the upcoming trip to  Europe with Martha and her mother. And, perhaps more importantly, being in love with James Nolan.

James was quiet and analytical, a man who had his career and aspirations mapped out at a young age, just as his father and brother had before him. He'd worked his way through college, eyes trained firmly on the horizon and his goal of being accepted into the Naval Academy and becoming an officer of the navy. He had a bright future ahead, and, to him, Lucy was already a natural part of that.

This young man was earth to Lucy's sky, and Isabelle could see how well they were matched by the love they shared for the restless sea.

XXXXXXXXX

Night had fallen when Isabelle found time to reflect on the day and on the newest chapter in her life. Too restless to sleep, she found herself slowly strolling along the chilly beach under a full moon, willing the gentle tumbling of the tide to ease her mind. Knowing that her daughter was grown and actually seeing her as a woman were two different things. She realized that she'd been very busy during the last two years, and with Lucy away at school it was easy to miss all of the changes that had taken place. She sighed into the breeze caressing her face.

"Our little girl is all grown up, Daniel."

"What does he think about that?"

Isabelle startled with a mild shriek, turning to see Lucy's amused smirk. "You shouldn't sneak up on old ladies like that!" she admonished playfully.

"You're not old, Mama," the young woman replied, looping her arm through her mothers and walking companionably by her side. "You still miss him, don't you?"

She drew in several steadying breaths before replying. "I never _stop_ missing him."

Lucy heard the sadness in her mother's admission. She had thought of the captain many times over the years and always remembered him with great fondness. He had been more of a father to her in the year he'd lived with them than Gerald Mills would ever have been willing to be. It was the captain who had encouraged her, helped her overcome her fears and given her the sense that she could accomplish anything she set her mind to. In spite of the brevity of the time he'd spent with her family, his influence had followed her throughout her life. He had given her the gift of confidence, something she'd grown to appreciate over the years.

Now, standing on the threshold of love, she began to glimpse the strength of the bond that Isabelle and the captain had shared with one another and, for the first time, she saw Isabelle as a woman rather than just her mother. Beneath the resilience and self sufficiency beat a warm and sensual heart that loved deeply and vibrantly, and that still held a link to the other half of her soul. As much as it disheartened her to know that her indomitable mother held so steadfast to a man who would never return, it also pleased her to know that such love existed.

True love.

As a child, she'd never thought about her mother marrying again after Captain Gold had gone away. Of course, back then, the events surrounding his sudden departure were unknown to her. As she got older, she'd occasionally heard Isabelle crying deep into the night, or watched from her window as she restlessly paced the lonely stretch of beach under a cold and solitary moon. Finally, just before she'd left for school, she'd asked about that night and received what she was sure was a watered-down version of the story.

Isabelle had told her that Killian Jones' boat had floundered into the storm and that she had been washed overboard. She'd explained that Daniel had rescued her but had to trade his own limited existence so she could live. _Very cut and dry, but romantic all the same_ , Lucy thought as they walked, but it had often nagged at her that there had to have been more to it than Isabelle had been willing to share back then. Perhaps she'd reconsider, one day, but she'd never push her mother. The captain had been lost to them, and mama had been so crushed, so deeply wounded and so bereft, she'd never felt it her place to press the older woman, who'd never even so much as looked at another man in all that time.

_ I never _ stop _missing him._

"So," Lucy asked quietly, "he never returned?"

Shaking her head sadly, she responded with a small sigh. "No, I don't think he had a choice in the matter." The wind carried the soft clang of a distant buoy, and she turned her face seaward to hide an errant tear from Lucy. "There are times, though, when I sense him watching; when I think he may, at least, be near enough to hear." Squeezing Lucy's arm where she rested her hand, she added, "I believe our love keeps us connected, even though he's not here with me."

"That's a nice thought," Lucy smiled wistfully and took a few moments to think it over. "Do you think James and I could ever love like that?"

"Of course," Isabelle acknowledged sincerely. "I watched you tonight. You like each other. That's the most important thing you can ever say about love. After the honeymoon is over, when the wolves come to the door," she glanced sidelong at the young face hanging on her every word, "it's easier to face the storms with someone you like, and who likes you back."

They had reached the end of the beach, their path blocked by rocks worn smooth by the kiss of the ocean. Their arms still entwined, they turned and began to head back toward the house. "Just remember that love isn't all just intense feelings and happy moments: it takes work and negotiation and commitment to last through the hard times."

"Did you and the captain have such a difficult time, then?"

"We did. You may not remember just what it was like then, but we had to weather quite a few storms. We made it, though; we'd have been so happy if I hadn't . . . if that night . . . had turned out differently."

Lucy felt the pain in her mothers' tremulous words and old suspicions rose with anger. "It was Grandmama, wasn't it? She had something to do with the captain going away, didn't she; her and Mr. Jones?"

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't know. She died that night, and I always thought that it meant something," Lucy shrugged, wandering on the uncertain ground she'd been avoiding for so long. "And Mr. Jones stopped coming around after the captain was gone."

Isabelle didn't know how to answer that. How does one go about telling their child that her grandmother had plotted to murder her mother and take her in so she could marry her off to the highest bidder? Or that a trusted friend had gone along with the scheme because he thought she was crazy and needed to be institutionalized? And she certainly couldn't tell her how Cora had _actually_ died. No, these things were best left unsaid and in the past.

"Grandmama dying was just a coincidence, sweetheart; and, well, Killian felt badly about what happened so, naturally, he withdrew a bit."

Isabelle had learned that the _Pirates' Heart_ had limped back to the docks during the storm, and Cora's death was declared a heart attack. Killian's attempts to see her daily during that first week had been hotly rebuffed by Martha who turned him away from their door after assuring him that his assistance was neither wanted nor welcomed. His insistence paid off on the eighth day, however, when Isabelle had resolved that she needed to return to the world of the living and he happened by when she was sitting on the front porch staring morosely at a handful of unopened mail.

He had mounted the steps, his eyes filled with remorse, and had gone down on his knees before her, begging for forgiveness. Isabelle had been too numb with grief to deal with his distress on top of her own; she'd been neither willing nor able to grant him absolution, nor had she been strong enough to turn him away. Her resolve to restrict her grief to her bedroom had abandoned her in a flood of tears when she'd told him that Daniel was gone. Alarmed and guilt ridden, he'd tried to comfort her, attempting to draw her into his arms, but she had been so miserable with sorrow and anger, she'd pushed him away and refused to tolerate him even touching her. She had trusted him and he'd betrayed her, his actions resulting in a nightmare that just wouldn't end; a nightmare she couldn't make herself wake up from – the loss of love and life, the end of hope. Unable to console her, Killian had left with a heavy heart and a determination to find a way to make amends.

While she'd slowly started healing on the outside, he'd sent her photograph to every reporter he knew. What had followed, had contributed to her healing on the inside, recovering hope and claiming her right to life and the responsibility that came with it; the responsibility of honoring Daniel's memory and providing for her family, raising her daughter and becoming who she was now.

Isabelle smiled and shook her head. "You know, I ran into Killian a few months ago at a conference. He's still quite handsome," she admitted. "He's married now, and he has two boys. He seemed happy." She'd been glad his life had turned out well but, truth be told, his contentment only served to remind her that Daniel was gone and she was alone and would be until Fate chose her time. But, if there was one thing she'd learned it was patience, and she didn't begrudge Jones' happiness.

Silver beams of moonlight reflected off of the crystalline sand as they strolled homeward to the rhythm of the tide, each lost in thought as they walked back toward the familiar house. Things had changed between them, a transition made from mother and daughter to something more akin to friendship. The girl had become a woman, the mother now an experienced companion and the feelings that came with this realization were both unsettling and completely welcome.

XXXXX

** October 1946 **

Dying leaves in hues of gold and brown and crimson rained softly down from boughs sighing sleepily in the chilly  Maine breeze. It was almost mid-morning when Isabelle made her way onto the balcony, the familiar antique telescope greeting her as it had every morning since she'd moved into this house so many years ago. She smoothed her hand along its surface and then frowned as she noticed the layer of dust that had accumulated over the last few weeks. Feeling a bit ashamed that she'd let the upkeep of the old thing fall to the wayside, she resolved to polish it up before lunchtime.

Dry leaves crunched and crumbled beneath her slippers as she slowly walked to the railing to peer out at the restless sea and her own little beach front below. All was as she expected it to be: the sun's silver reflections dancing on the turquoise surface of the ocean; boats and vessels scattered about in friendly competition; gulls punctuating the rustle of the autumn foliage with sharp cries above the shoreline. It was a comforting routine that she never tired of. She lingered for a bit, just watching this strange dance from her perch outside of her bedroom, her mind languidly noting each detail and nothing at all.

The peace of the morning stole over her and she sighed, knowing that it would be the last peaceful morning she'd have in a while. The children were on their way, would be here by evening. It wasn't an invasion, really, and she'd been looking forward to seeing her grandson, Frank, since he'd returned from his enlistment a few months ago. It has been Lucy's suggestion that he and his wife, Linda, keep the house while they were touring to promote their new book. A few weeks on the East coast, home for the holidays and then another trip across the  Atlantic for two months with the distributors in  Europe . Then end of the war had opened up new markets there, and her publishers were convinced that this particular new book with its happy themes, so very far removed from the anarchic misery and the hard realities of these terrible times were just what the readers across the ocean hungered for.

It exhausted her just to think about it, though.

It had been several months since she'd returned from a round of lectures, feeling tired and in need of the solitude of home. Long walks on the beach wore her out quickly, and more often than not, she'd retreated to her room to piddle with correspondence between catnaps. Martha fussed over her like a mother hen until Isabelle grew snippy and frustrated, and then apologetic and emotional. Afterward, she'd pretend to have a bit more zest, and Martha would pretend not to notice the lie. In the end, she knew her faithful friend had conspired with Lucy to bring the young couple into the house in the hope that the new blood would energize Isabelle.

To that end, her daughter's old bedroom was made ready for the youngsters. The wallpaper had been replaced, the trim painted, the floor scrubbed and the rugs beaten spotless. The bedstead had new ticking and linens on it, and the dresser had been emptied of the odds and ends that had been stored there forever. Everything was fresh and gleaming and ready for a new beginning.

She smiled to herself thinking about the pink satin ribbon tied to one of the bed posts with a note pinned on it reading "follow me." She knew her grandson's wife was a kindred soul who loved surprises, and in her minds' eye she saw the young blonde excitedly gather the length of ribbon in her hands, following it expectantly down the hall and into the guest room. Beyond the door, the room was cleared of every stick of furniture, its bare walls scrubbed clean and smelling of pine oil. The ribbon ended in a large bow attached to a common white envelope, and inside it was a handsome sum of cash and a note granting the couple permission to renovate the room into a nursery for the one expected to join them in scarcely four months time.

So, even though the fall was dying to the winter, renewal would come in the spring as the rhythms of life flowed in an endless cycle of beginning, ending and beginning again. She was glad the young people would be moving in; it had grown too quiet in this house, and there was more work to be done than she and Martha could keep up with, even with a handyman coming on a regular basis. Besides, it would be good for these timeworn floorboards to welcome the footfalls of young and energetic feet. Truth be told, she liked the idea of rejuvenating the carpets with a little mud.

Sighing, as she was want to do much of lately, Isabelle wasn't sure she was up to traveling right now; but plans had been made and this was Lucy's first publication, so they'd be on their way in a week, leaving their home in capable hands.

Breaking from her reverie, Isabelle realized she was shivering, her comfortable old sweater failing to keep her warm in the brisk weather. Sighing, she lumbered back inside, securing the doors behind her as she sought the warmth of her room, kept cozy by the small fire burning low in the hearth. Rubbing her arms, she tried to get the circulation stirring in them as the familiar 'pins and needles' feeling she'd been experiencing lately returned. Her chest felt tight from the cold sea air and she closed her eyes and slowly drew in a deep breath, releasing it as the feeling gradually subsided.

Frowning, she supposed she'd have to see the doctor before she went on her trip. It wouldn't do to come down with a cold while they were far away from home.

Walking past the vanity, she caught her reflection in the mirror. She'd been too tired this morning to fix her hair properly, so she'd simply plaited the long strands into a heavy braid, pulling it demurely over her shoulder. Her hair was still dark and the touches of silver at her temples framed a pretty face that was softened by age and a fair helping of laugh lines. Grimacing at the faint circles beneath her eyes, she noticed how tired and weary she appeared in spite of the increased amounts of sleep she'd been getting lately. Well, she _had_ been under the weather for a while now. Sighing, she decided a check up wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Turning away from her own reflection, Isabelle sought the portrait bearing her husband's familiar face. Arrayed in his captains' uniform, his face rugged and commanding, his stormy expression carefully hiding all traces of the warmth and humor she knew him to possess. _It's not fair_ , she thought testily. His stern countenance hadn't changed a bit, but time had stolen away her youth gradually, quietly, with steady hands and without seeking her permission. It had creased her skin and frayed her patience, stiffened her limbs and undermined her resolve. She wondered what he'd think of her.

"Good morning, Daniel," she smiled wistfully.

There were times when she'd imagined him responding in kind, but now as always, the image merely stared back in silence, fixed and unchangeable. It had been that way for all of these years but this morning the lack of response struck a chord of loneliness in her that settled like a heavy blanket over her heart, weighing her down.

"I miss you so much," she whispered, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

_ Isabelle.  _

She held her breath as his voice whispered her name. "Daniel?" she whispered back, and then waited, straining to hear the faint echo of his voice again, but only the quiet crackle of the fire caressed her ear.

For a moment, she permitted herself to be taken back to a time when they'd been together in this very room, when his brown eyes would warm as he held her gaze. She'd loved coaxing a crooked smile from his stern visage, or watching him fold his arms over his chest as if he could prevent a laugh from rising up to take him. She missed his voice; she missed his quick mind; she missed his arms holding her.

"You're a silly, old woman," she admonished herself, and then addressed the portrait. "I'm sorry, Daniel; I guess I'm just a bit off today." And she truly was feeling out of sorts. She was so tired, and she longed to settle in for a nap in the bed whose covers she'd yet to smooth over for the day. But, that would take time and effort, and she'd much rather stand where she was, lost in the face that still haunted her dreams, even if he'd cease to roam the halls of the old house she'd shared with him once upon a time.

She had dreamed of him much of late, his presence lingering after she'd woken. She supposed her increased napping had as much to do with spending time with Daniel as to address her ever present fatigue. In her dreams, she had the stamina of youth, and the time she spent with her husband in that quiet place seemed as real as her waking moments.

Two quick raps on the door broke her reverie and announced Martha's presence as she bustled in balancing the tea tray. "Good morning, Miss," she offered energetically, not the least diminished for all her years. She was only a few pounds heavier, and a great deal grayer than she'd been in past years, but she was still strong and lively for all that she was nearly seventy years old. "Come, sit down," she addressed her employer, "You barely touched your breakfast, so I brought you some toast and jam."

As she often did, Isabelle removed the chipped cup from the mantle and handed it over to Martha. Casting a dubious look at her employer, the servant took it in hand and used the corner of her apron to wipe any dust from inside before placing it on a saucer on the tray. She then prattled on about the arrival of the children and what she was serving for dinner while she poured tea into the little chipped cup for the lady of the house and then poured one for herself, but Isabelle registered little of what the housekeeper said. Martha's silence finally caught her attention and she turned sluggishly in her direction. Noting the concern in the older woman's eyes, Isabelle put on a bright face and walked over and settled onto the settee. She wasn't hungry but, desiring to appease her old friend, she took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully before washing it down with a sip of tea.

"You should be careful of that chipped rim, Miss," Martha admonished while addressing the unmade bed.

"I've been drinking from this cup for years and have never once cut my lip," she said petulantly. The bed making had irritated said "Miss." _I wanted to get back into that._

"That's true enough," Martha conceded, and cast a worried glance her direction as she tucked the edges of the sheet firmly under the mattress. She could tell Isabelle was having a bad day, as those had been occurring more often than not lately, and she decided a change of topic was needed to keep her from becoming agitated. "Look there by the tray, dear one. The first copy of the book arrived in the post this morning."

Excited, Isabelle put her cup down and grabbed the brown parcel from the table. Quickly divesting it of paper and string, she found herself holding a copy of her latest book, a collaboration between her daughter and herself. The leather cover of the square book was a rich, chocolate brown with the border and title, "Once Upon a Time," lavishly displayed in gold filigree. A genuine smile spread across her features as she caressed the cool binding. Opening the book, she found the title page and let her eyes linger on the acknowledgements inscribed there for a moment before reading aloud, "Once Upon a Time, written by Belle French and beautifully illustrated by Lucy Nolan."

She let her eyes roam to the page before it and resumed reading. "This book is dedicated to Martha Potts, our most selfless and dedicated friend," she read, pausing to watch her companion as the words sunk in. Martha had never been one to receive praise, but hearing Isabelle's words set her chin quivering and her eyes brightening with tears she quickly held in check. A rather impressive blush spread across her wizened features as she drew near the younger woman seated before her and laid a work worn hand on her slender shoulder. "Thank you, Isabelle," she softly acknowledged.

Isabelle squeezed her hand affectionately and continued to read the rest of the dedication in silence as Martha settled in next to her to look over her shoulder. _And to my beloved Daniel_. Smiling, she lovingly ran her fingers over the words as if she could touch him through the inscription.

_ Isabelle.  _

How often would she hear his voice today, she wondered?

They spent the next half hour randomly leafing through the book. She'd worked for years on some of these tales, some of them woven from her fancy as she tucked Lucy into bed at night. Rather than a collection of familiar and unrelated stories, her versions were linked together through common threads, the heroes clinging valiantly to family and justice while they faced incalculable odds against villains who were flawed and vulnerable, unscrupulous and calculating. There was always a bit of a thrill in seeing her words printed on the elegant linen paper, but this time, it was Lucy's exquisite watercolors which took her breath away. In fact, they had been the inspiration for their collaboration on this project, which had been in the works for the last two years. She and Martha looked over the familiar faces of neighbors and family members Lucy had depicted in her art as heroes and villains throughout the book: her teacher, Mrs. Hofmann, as the Scribe of the Dark One, etching out the following tales with quill and ink from a cozy tower room with a tabby cat sleeping at her feet; Leroy the dairy man as Grumpy the dwarf, and his wife, Astrid, as Nova the Fairy Godmother in Training; Lucy herself, and James, as Snow White and Prince Charming. Even Martha was there as Ruth, the hard working mother of the shepherd turned prince.

"There's something here you don't know about," Martha said smugly. Grinning at the question etched in Isabelle's expression, she reached over and gently pulled the book away, thumbed through several stories before stopping and returning it gently to Isabelle's lap.

The story was called _Skin Deep_ , and was Isabelle's version of _The Beauty and The Beast_. She had cast an evil imp, Rumpelstiltskin, in the beast's role, a deeply flawed man with great powers through whom many of the other stories were linked. He was a terrifying and solitary figure, until he'd finally found love.

Of all of the stories she'd written, this was her favorite.

Regarding the first page of the tale, her breath caught as she looked at the illustration she found there. Lucy had chosen her mother to represent the brave and beautiful Belle who'd won the sorcerer's heart. Lady Belle was young Isabelle, dressed in a golden ball gown that nearly glowed against the darker shadings of a castle war room; and behind her, casting a striking pose from the gloomy shadows stood the magical being that had just exacted a promise of _forever_ from her. Even with his odd coloring and wild hair she recognized the perfect likeness of Daniel, his dark eyes promising mischief, and more than a touch of humor playing about the thin lips.

"Isabelle, are you alright? Isabelle?"

The concern in Martha's voice cut through the haze she'd fallen into as her eyes drank in the vivid renderings of her daughter's imagination. Looking up, she smiled tremulously at her old friend, and she swiped the back of her hand against wet cheeks.

"Yes, of course," she claimed, even though she wasn't.

Carefully studying each new page she turned, she watched the story unfold in muted tones as Belle's love was rejected, and the Beauty was captured by an Evil Queen who looked suspiciously like a younger version of Cora Mills. Seizing his courage and surpassing himself by crossing realms to find to her, the Beast set about rescuing his maiden, and she, in return, broke his curse with True Love's Kiss.

The magic of Lucy's illustrations and the memories of the night she'd lost Daniel, who'd saved _her_ and broken _her_ curse every bit as much as she'd broken his, made the storm she'd survived and the minutes after that on the beach come alive before her eyes. The force of the recollection was overwhelming.

The last illustration, filling an entire page, revealed the distinct likeness of Captain Gold gazing into the sky blue eyes of a young and vibrant Isabelle, and she wondered how much longer she'd have to walk this earth without him.

Fighting tears, she found it difficult to take a deep breath and a sheen of sweat broke across her brow at the effort it took to fill her lungs. She was exhausted, feeling ever so vulnerable and raw, but then she saw the worry in Martha's eyes when she looked at her, and she was suddenly embarrassed. Resolvedly straightening her back, she willed herself to appear stronger than she felt, putting on her most confident smile for the older woman. She didn't want Martha telling Lucy her lovely illustrations had made her mother cry.

"It's wonderful," she told her warmly, "I love it," and Martha returned her smile.

The housekeeper patted Isabelle's hand comfortingly. "We knew you would," she responded affectionately, and she knew that she did; but she wasn't blind. She understood that Isabelle still suffered from Daniel's loss, even after all these years. She also knew that her friend was very ill.

She'd had enough of pussyfooting around the issue, and after a short pause, she decided to address it directly. "You're not well, dear. I'm going to have Doctor Little come round tomorrow and look you over."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Isabelle answered crossly.

Martha, however, would brook no rebellion this time. Rising from the settee, she drew up to her full height and spoke down to the fragile woman before her. "I certainly _will_ ," she said firmly, "and I'll hear no more arguments. You're going to see the doctor whether you like it or not."

"Doctors are such a bother," Isabelle pouted, but she knew that her old friend was right. Even so, she didn't want to appear to concede too easily. "I'm just tired, Martha, I keep getting this funny pain in my arm." As she spoke, she realized that she was, indeed, totally spent, and she laid her head back against the settee and closed her eyes, the tightness subsiding as she relaxed.

"That's exactly why you need to see him," Martha murmured, her thoughts troubled as she looked at the pale face of the younger woman she'd raised and cared for and not liking what appeared to be all too familiar. She'd seen the same symptoms in Isabelle's mother and feared to worst.  Laying a gentle hand on her friend's clammy brow, she noted with dread how the touch failed to rouse Isabelle as she drifted into sleep.

_ No, _ she thought urgently, _I'll go and call the doctor now._

Crossing the room, she removed a blue crocheted afghan from the foot of the bed and gently settled it over Isabelle's form, noting the calm shallow breaths rising and falling with her chest. Pausing a moment to press a maternal kiss on her still brow, she quietly said, "You rest now dear; I'll be back soon."

Isabelle lips curved upward, but she didn't answer. Out of habit, Martha gathered the tea tray and balanced it on one hand as she made her way to the door and opened it to leave. Glancing back, she saw Isabelle still and breathing peacefully on the wicker settee, bathed in the soft warmth of the  noon sun filtering through from the balcony, the book in her lap opened to the sweet image of her and the captain with their happy ending.

XXXXX

Isabelle heard the soft snap of the door closing when Martha left, but it wasn't enough to rouse her from the twilight she found herself in. Nearly an hour passed, during which time she drifted in and out of awareness until she gradually became conscious of a heavy constriction about her chest. Instinctively, she tried to draw a breath, but found she couldn't. She vaguely thought that she should be bothered by that, but the struggle lasted only for a moment, after which she lay quietly warm and boneless under the blue cover.

_ A breeze gently caressed her face, and she slowly opened her eyes. Diaphanous light filtered into the room from the open balcony doors bathing the room in a tranquil and soothing glow. She sat up and stretched her arms, no longer tired; nor did she feel the heaviness she'd grown used to over the past few months and she smiled at the sense of freedom she felt. Pushing up from the settee, she rose and reached back to smooth over her hair, surprised that it hung in loose, chestnut curls about her shoulders rather than the long braid she'd expected.  _

_ She smoothed down her skirt with hands that were lean and strong and noted that she now wore the long forgotten blue dress that Daniel had favored so much. Feeling that something had changed, but not quite able to identify what that was, she looked about the room and saw that all seemed to be in order. Martha was gone now, as was the tea tray, but the bed was made and the fire was burning low in the hearth. Stepping into the center of the room, she looked back and saw the old woman resting serenely on the settee, the book of beautiful illustrations lying open on her lap. Focusing her attention on beautiful picture of her and her husband, she smiled as she heard the faint echo of his voice.  _

Isabelle.

_ The voice was distinct this time; there was nothing in this room for her now.  _

_ The light that had spilled in from outside beckoned to her and she followed it out onto the familiar balcony. Gray clouds pushed ahead of the incoming front were swirling about and darkening the sky, but the temperate glow seemed to exist apart from the world she'd known and it wrapped around her, warm and inviting. She gazed about the landscape, saw the persistent northern wind shake and rattle the trees as they surrendered their colorful harvest of leaves about her, but she felt nothing of its severity here in the living brightness that enveloped her. Instead, the luminescence itself seemed to grow and it made her skin tingle with anticipation. Looking down at her hands, she saw that they appeared translucent. In fact, she seemed less than tangible all over.  _

That's not quite normal _, she thought, but she wasn't troubled by it, since there was really nothing amiss, so she turned her attention back toward the little beachfront, and stepped forward, her toes finding purchase on the coarse, yielding sand. Tendrils of the ever present radiance gently swirled about her as she began to experience a new awareness of her surroundings. The cries of the gulls and gush of the sea became sharper and clearer, and the salty breeze that had escaped her just moments before now wafted over her skin in a robust way that seemed, somehow, more vibrant than she'd ever experienced before._

_ She felt weightless as she traversed the hazy shoreline, a silent, peaceful contentment enveloping her, and she was aware of a sky filled with the colors of the shore at sunset; the sun's amber, pink and purple rays danced and roiled rhythmically back and forth on the water's surface… back and forth… Foamy bubbles of cool, briny water cascaded over her bare ankles, tugging at the gritty grains of sand beneath the balls of her feet before scurrying back into the restless ocean, and she was unburdened as she hadn't been in ages.  _

_ All at once, she could feel him, began searching for him, knowing that he was here, searching for her as well.  _

_ Raising her hand to her brow and squinting to narrow her field of vision, looking further than she could have with earthly eyes into a gathering fog ahead. A few more steps forward and there he was, just ahead and striding steadily toward her, smiling. His bearing was confident, as it had always been, and his arms swung purposefully by his sides; he still moved with the same buoyant surefootedness of someone accustomed to holding his balance on tumultuous decks over rough seas. It was as if he'd never been anyplace else, though his absence in her life had left a void that she'd never been able to fill. Seeing him here now, however, cancelled out all of the emptiness and lonely nights she'd spent without him, chased away the shadows and the pain, and she called out his name.  _

_ "Daniel!" _

_ Picking up her skirts, she ran to him, and in a few heartbeats, he caught her up in his arms and pressed urgent kisses about her face. It had been so very long since he'd held her like this, and she relished the brashness of his beard on her sensitive skin, the feel of his lean body pressed up against hers, and the taste of his mouth on her lips. They clung tightly to one another, as if trying to merge into one being, although, deep down, they knew that nothing would ever keep them apart again.  _

_ "Ye've come at last, Belle-of-mine," he whispered, pressing his brow to hers, closing his eyes to drink in the scent of her. _

_ "Yes, Daniel," she answered softly, pushing her fingers through his hair. He was just as she remembered him, and she felt the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders as she gazed into his expressive eyes – the earth to her sky.  _

_ He released her and let her take a step back from him, giving her time to look about them. The warm glow that engulfed them seemed to hover over the little beach where it had taken her love from her so many years ago. To her right was the home she'd spent the majority of her life, where she'd raised a child, written millions of words and found enough love in one year to last for a lifetime. To her left, over the ever turbulent  _ _ Atlantic _ _ , was a mist from which the netherlight emanated.  _

_ Turning to her husband, she asked, "What now?"  _

_ He smiled and brushed the hair from her delicate face, as fresh and sweet as ever he remembered. This was the way she always would be, to him. He drew her back into his embrace and kissed her lips so very lightly. _

_ "Now, me love, we have our forever," he told her, and they began walking; hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, and soul to soul.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've come, at last, to the final chapter, and there is only an epilogue to go (it will be here soon, I promise). Thank you all for reading this story. Writing it has been such a journey for me, and I appreciate your patience, your reviews, your kind words and your support. 
> 
> A special thank you to my excellent beta, OneMagician. You have taught me so much, and have improved my work greatly with your input and consultations in dark towers and castle kitchens. I could not have done this without you.


	24. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration: The Book of Love by Peter Gabriel

** Storybrooke ** ** ,  ** ** Maine ** ** , 2013 **

Robert Gold was a haunted man.

His life continued much the same as it had before he'd moved into the old Victorian on  Moncton Avenue . He went to work. He collected rent. He phoned his son, Neal, every Tuesday evening. He made money. A lot of money. Everything in his world worked like a well-oiled machine except for one thing: he couldn't get the lady author off of his mind.

He had left her portrait hanging over the mantle where it had always been, next to Daniel Gold's, just as he'd agreed when he purchased the house. Every morning he opened his eyes to the soft morning sun spreading a halo about the lady's lovely semblance, and at night the moon lit her sensuous eyes in a glow of bluish aurora that held him enraptured until he fell asleep. He could neither enter nor leave his bedroom without his eyes being drawn to the face that breathed life into his dreams and imaginings.

His great-something-grandfather merely mocked him with a sardonic gaze that never wavered.

Thelma Babcock had left the entire collection of Belle French's works behind in the otherwise barren library. He was sure now that she'd done it to torment him. He'd started with Daniel Gold's biography, merely to satisfy his curiosity about his seafaring ancestor, and found himself impressed with the author's candid portrayal of the man whose resemblance he bore. He found much of himself in the tale of the captain, the same spirit of restlessness in his youth, a knack for business and an aching desire to put down roots and gather his family to him as he approached middle life. In fact, her insights were so uncannily accurate that he began to feel as if it was _his_ soul that had been laid bare in her words, entrusted for safekeeping, and he instantly felt a connection to her. To find a kindred spirit in the biographer, and in his grandfather through her efforts, led him to seek her out in the only means he could. A rather impressive reading frenzy followed that covered nineteen other biographies ranging from presidents to peasants, each of them presenting a fascinating portrayal of a life worth viewing. She had been an amazing writer who presented her subjects with sensitivity and a touch of humor.

He followed up on the books with countless articles covering the political scene in the first half of the twentieth century. The compositions themselves were surprisingly comprehensive for being touted as a "woman's perspective." Indeed, she dealth with many aspect of politics, from women's suffrage (an expected topic in that era) to the stock market, employment bills, child labor, trade agreements and issues regarding law enforcement, and her scope was not limited to just those considered interesting to "the fairer sex." She even offered her views for supporting the  United States entry into the Second World War in  Europe , a rather unpopular idea prior to the bombing of  Pearl Harbor . He found her observations to be honest and thought provoking, and it was obvious that she had a rare ability to tackle issues from a very non-partisan vantage. He'd never encountered so keen a mind or anyone who sparked his imagination the way she had. He got into the habit of reading before the mantle every evening under her watchful eye, and he often found himself commenting on whatever he was reading aloud to the photograph, imagining her answers his queries.

Gold had never been so glad that he lived alone, nor so aware of how alone he was.

He'd assumed that his obsession with long-dead author would end when he finished reading the collection, but that's when his troubles really began. In his dreams, he'd be standing on the balcony, as she had so often done in her time, unbeknownst to him, looking out on the harbor. She'd appear at the door behind him and join him there, her soft, alluring figure clad in silken fabrics that clung to her delicate frame in the most enticing way. Her beguiling smile never failed to draw one of his own, and he'd lose himself in conversations that started off with his casual remarks on material from her many writings and ended with him divulging his innermost thoughts and secrets to her sympathetic and interested heart. After a while, he even found himself holding her in his arms, her blue eyes like warm, liquid pools inviting him closer, her lips parting slightly, welcoming his kiss. Just at that moment, though, he'd wake up, frustrated and empty in his cold bed.

Nor was his tormenter content to claim his company only on the balcony; soon, he dreamt her all about the house, joining him in the parlor to discuss his day, in his study to tease him away from his ledgers, on the porch to chide him about the disarray he'd let her gardens fall into. He'd even begun to feel her presence during his waking moments, expecting to find her seated at the old desk in the library banging out words on the antique typewriter, or putting the kettle on for tea when he'd arrive home late from a night of rent collections.

The day came when he walked the solitary stretch of beach at the front of the property and thought he heard her voice whispering to him in the swish of the foamy salt water striking the shore. A breeze caressed his cheek and he turned, half expecting her to be behind him, only to be greeted by the restless tide washing away a solitary set of footprints, and he discovered that he actually wished it were otherwise.

He knew he was going mad.

It was then that he determined to put an end to it. The wretched photograph was a daily reminder of something he could never have, and it stood to reason that getting rid of the thing would soon put him back in the right frame of mind. However, taking it down posed a problem: he'd agreed to leave the portrait where it was, and he was a man of his word even in the most absurd circumstance. He debated the issue over several days during which he thought of her in the quiet moments between customers and clients; countless evenings when he wished he could talk to her after Neal's call and over dinner; and endless nights during which he dreamed of walking with her along the briny shoreline, her small hand tucked familiarly in his own rough hand.

Enough was enough.

On a sultry June night, he entered his room and resolutely approached the portrait, taking a moment to study the face that haunted his every waking thought and dream, he allowed his long fingers to gently trace the lines of her features. His breath always caught when he looked at her face from a close vantage point. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she was looking at _him_ , every fiber of her being declaring herself his and his alone. Mentally shaking the images that accompanied those coveted sentiments, he whispered a very regretful "goodbye," before lifting the gold frame from the wall and, turning it over, carefully catching the edge of the front of the frame onto the nail it had previously hung from.

"There!" he huffed triumphantly. Staring at the back of the frame, he thought himself rather clever for having arrived at a solution which allowed him to live up to his word, even though his heart thumped wretchedly in his chest over what amounted to snubbing the eternal beauty in her own home. Steeling himself against unwelcome pangs of guilt, he carefully removed his expensive suit and tumbled into the blue and black plaid pajama bottoms and Kasabian t-shirt he favored sleeping in. He poured himself a cup of tea from the pot he'd brought up earlier and settled in to read the daily edition of _The Mirror_ before turning in for the night.

He was halfway through a mundane article on the reopening of the library when he felt the distinct prickle of being watched tease over the nerves on the back of his neck. He stilled his movements, listening intently for the telltale sounds of breaking and entering or the creaking of floorboards over which felonious feet would creep stealthily inside. Hearing nothing but the distant sound of the ocean lapping at the shore through the balcony doors, he quietly turned about, surveying the bedroom left and right until his attention came to rest on the stormy eyes glowering at him from the old oil painting hanging next to the banished image hanging on the mantle.

He had seen the portrait of Daniel Gold day in and day out since he'd taken up residence in the home his ancestor had build over a century past, but he'd never noticed how fierce the weathered face of the captain had appeared before. The menacing scowl pierced his conscience, stabbing him with an accusatory glare that demanded some action on his part to rectify a great wrong. It reminded him of the withering frown his old aunt would fix upon him just before cuffing him for some impropriety of manners. He had the distinct impression that the old captain had taken offense to his turning of the ladies' portrait, and that he was expected not only to rectify that wrong post haste, but to apologize as well.

It occurred to him that he was now skating dangerously close to a session with the town psychiatrist, and since _that_ was never going to happen, he opted to return his attention to the newspaper and ignore whatever dealings were going on over the mantle. Having lost all ability to concentrate on reading an actual article, he began scanning the headlines from the national section and reached for his tea cup.

Absentmindedly sipping the last of his now cooled tea, his awareness was sharply brought into focus as pain laced sharply across his lip. Cursing, he pulled the cup away and reached for the wounded area, his finger swiping across his mouth and pulling away to reveal bright, fresh blood. He stood and, grabbing a napkin from the tea tray and to hold against his throbbing lip, he examined the familiar chipped cup. It had been the first one he'd unpacked from the set Thelma Babcock had sent him, and it had instantly become his favorite to drink from. In all the months he had used the cup, he'd never so much as scratched himself and now, here he was bleeding into a napkin while great-granddaddy smirked above the mantle, demanding that he right the wrong he'd done the lady writer.

"You can forget that!" he growled at the old seafarer, confronting the portrait as if the man stood before him in the flesh.

Gripping the cup, tea sloshing over the sides, he pulled his hand back with the intention of hurling the hapless china at the portrait, anticipating the satisfying crash of ceramic breaking into a thousand tiny shards. At that moment, however, a cool and errant breeze gently stole into the room, caressing and cooling his face and ruffling his hair like a lover's hand. Lowering the cup as his temper subsided, he leveled one final look of defiance in the captains' direction before obstinately turning his back and returning the cup to the tray.

His dreams over the next few days were sheer retribution. Isabelle haunted him as much as she ever had, but now he was alone, bereft of her presence. He dreamed that he could hear her crying somewhere in the house, and he'd search from room to room calling out to her, but never able to find her or offer her comfort. He dreamed he could see her walking their singular stretch of beach, her feet bare and the wind teasing her long, dark tresses; he ached to walk beside her, but no matter how fast he ran or how hard he pushed himself, he could never catch up to her. He dreamed again and again that he came home to an empty house and his solitude weighed on him even throughout his waking hours.

His resolve faltered on the sixth day. Like a penitent, he glumly approached the mantle with his wicked patriarch's stern eye upon him and righted the framed photograph with a guilty hand. He was instantly rewarded by the familiar smile and bright eyes gazing back at him, and he felt her forgiveness warm and expand his shriveled heart to near bursting. In the end, he supposed it was better to dream about the apparition than to suffer from her absence.

Somewhere in  Florida , he was sure old Mrs. Babcock was laughing.

** XXXXX **

It had been three weeks since he'd made his peace with the lady writer and her vigilant champion. On the night he'd righted his grievous error against them, he'd dreamed they'd visited with him on the front porch for a time in congenial conversation that he had no memory of. They had sat together, side by side, across from him in the weathered, old rocker, Isabelle perched on the lap of the content captain in whose arms she was affectionately wrapped, the two of them sharing lively remarks with the normally reserved pawn broker. Robert found that he enjoyed their company, as one would old friends who shared like experiences and sensibilities, and all too soon their time together ended. He found himself reluctantly escorting them down the cobbled pathway to the front gate, turning toward the beach front rather than the road leading back to Storybrooke.

They walked at a leisurely pace, neither of them seeming to be in a hurry to go wherever it was they were heading. The sun lay low on the horizon, but he had no idea if it was setting or rising, and he got the impression it might well be doing both at the same time. Isabelle released Daniel's hand and reached out for his own, which he gave her without reservation, her touch both electrifying and soothing at the same time. It was surprisingly warm for a dream, gentle and soft, and he remembered having craved her touch for so long now. As his hand lay in her open palm, she pressed into his a petite, gold _claddagh_ ring, the one that had adorned her own finger for as long as she'd been haunting him.

"Robert," she said in parting, "you shouldn't live your life alone. Love will come to you in a way you can't even begin to imagine; please, don't shut it out." Leaning in toward him, she pushed her diminutive frame up and pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek, and then backed away with a brilliant smile. He watched them walk away, hand in hand in the amber tones of the sunset/sunrise, until their forms melted into the misty nothingness that dreams are made of.

He had slowly woken to the familiar tones of orange and gold filtering through his eyelids from the morning sun, the call of the surf and seagulls gently assaulting his consciousness to drive the last vestiges of the dream away. Opening his eyes, he blinked at the ceiling for a moment, sensing a change had occurred, but not fully grasping what it might be, knowing instinctively that a door had closed to his otherworldly encounters. He thought back on the image of the strange couple he'd shared the twilight with, and turned toward the two portraits hanging beside one another on the mantle. They were still this morning, and he sensed that whatever personality he'd attached to them was gone now, that the strange haunting had come to an end.

"That's just as well," he thought. There was no need to add madness to the growing sense of isolation that was closing in about him with the loss of the strange ghosts whose spirits lingered here, whetting his appetite for conversation and human interaction.

Robert sluggishly stretched his limbs, his arms extended over his head and his hands clinched tight, and it was then he felt something in his hand. Bringing it close to his face, he opened his fist and shuddered when he saw the _claddagh_ ring Isabelle had given him.

** XXXXX **

The next day was Independence Day and he closed his shop early. He'd been the only store open all day in a town caught up in parades and picnics and he hadn't done any business anyway. He'd had plans to celebrate the holiday with Neal, but his son had cancelled on him in favor of staying in  Manhattan with his new girlfriend who was, ironically, originally from Storybrooke and was ditching _her_ parents to stay with him. He was disappointed, but then Neal had told him that _Emma was 'the one,'_ and he'd encouraged him to stay and court his young lady, consoling himself with the knowledge that somewhere in the little hamlet Sheriff Nolan and his wife were just as disappointed as he was.

_ Wait until they found out whose son she was dating.  _

With nothing to do and no one to celebrate with, he decided he'd head home, maybe piddle around the garden a bit. He'd had a landscaper in a couple of months ago to install a sprinkler system and plant rosebushes and flowers in the old beds in his back yard, but they could use a little tidying here and there. He'd never particularly cared for flowers, but his nocturnal _visitor_ had mentioned that she'd had gardens during her years here and, well, roses the house must have. The frugal Scotsman had felt foolish to have spent money on something only he would ever see, but then _she_ had smiled.

After a shower, he'd heat up the leftover lasagna he'd purchased from Granny's last night and then wait on the balcony for the fireworks to ignite over the harbor. It just so happened that he had the best seat anywhere in Storybrooke, and since he wouldn't be able to sleep through the noise, he might as well enjoy the jubilant bursts of color with a nice glass of wine.

Alone.

Robert limped to the front of the store and turned the "open" sign to the "closed" side before counting down his cash drawer (a routine formality as he had sold nothing that day) and locking it in the safe for the night. He began meticulously sorting a small collection of screwdrivers, his thoughts centered on the small ring he had carried in his pocket since his parting dream several days before.

He wondered where it had come from, not wanting to accept the possibility that his encounters had been anything but a figment of his imagination. He'd examined the little ring many times, authenticated it as an antique of more sentimental rather than actual value, but try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to put it in the display case and offer it for sale. It was warm in his hand as he imagined it adorning a slender finger, a promise of a lifetime of hope and help and love in an endless golden loop; a promise of _forever_.

His thoughts were interrupted by the jingle of the bell over the front door as someone entered the shop. Quickly pocketing the ring, he muttered irritably, "that sign was a waste of money." He remained at his task, his back to the would be customer who's footfalls now approached the counter behind him.

"Are you Mr. Gold?"

Robert detected the distinct Australian accent in the silky, feminine voice, mildly peaking his curiosity, but finished his task of putting away the small tools, turning midway through his answer. "Yes I am, but I'm afraid the shop is closed."

He was stunned by the vision that met his eyes. Before him was a petite woman with dark, chestnut curls tumbling freely about a delicate face with large, cerulean eyes, her perfect lips curved in a shy, friendly smile. She wore a sundress the color of the sky and impossibly tall stilettos and he drank in her familiar form like a thirsty man at an oasis. He had seen her likeness so many times before, but seeing her in the flesh was quite a shock. He feared he really was going mad, or that he might be having a stroke, perhaps, and it even crossed his mind that he could be dreaming again, because here before him stood the very image of Belle French.

She cast a quizzical look at him, addressing him as he limped around the counter to draw closer to her, his face a mask of astonishment. "My granny told me to find you and to tell you that a 'ghost has come to call.' Does that mean anything to you?"

He couldn't answer that, having barely registered what she'd said. Reaching out, he firmly grabbed her shoulder, both shocked and relieved to feel warm flesh greeting his hand as he tested her substance for himself. "You're real," he said stupidly, "you're alive."

"Last time I looked," she laughed lightly.

He took a breath and withdrew his hand, running it shakily through his hair. Hoping that he didn't appear to be too much of an idiot, he tried to salvage the situation. "I'm sorry, you reminded me of someone."

"Oh, that's alright," she returned. "I have cousins here; I suppose there's a family resemblance." Offering her hand she introduced herself. "I'm Isabelle Babcock, but my friends call me Belle." She elaborated when he continued to stare. "I'm the new librarian."

His heart fluttered in his chest as he accepted her hand, a faint current emanating from her delicate fingers that rippled through him. He ignored the voice in the back of his head screaming about the differences in their ages and his reputation as a closed-hearted jerk. Beauty stood before the Beast of Storybrooke and the only voice he listened to was Isabelle's' faint whisper, _"Love will find you . . . please don't shut it out."_

"Of course," he finally answered, a genuine smile warming his features attractively. "I'm Robert."

They stood for several heartbeats, warm brown eyes locked onto those of azure blue, an unspoken connection forming between them before he reluctantly released her hand. She was flustered in a good way, a telling blush stealing over her features as she remembered what had prompted her to seek him out. "My granny sold you your house."

"Aye, Mrs. Babcock. I trust she's well?" he asked politely.

"Yes, she is." Belle shifted shyly, moving closer to him as she framed her request, "She said you might show me her house sometime."

"Of course," Gold answered, seizing the opportunity to spend any moment with her. "As a matter of fact, you could join me now, if you don't have any other plans?"

"None that I can't get out of," she smiled.

"Good," he breathed out, relieved that she'd agreed so easily. "Nothing's open today, so if you don't mind leftovers . . ."

"I don't." Looking up at him expectantly, trustingly, the pretty librarian suggested, "Maybe we can watch the fireworks together later?"

"I know just the place," he answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish to than each and every one of you who have read my story, and also to those who offered me feedback through reviews and messages. 
> 
> To OneMagician, editor, teacher, confidant, encourager and friend: I literally could not have done this without you. Your encouragement enabled me, your own work inspired me, and your praise humbled me. Thank you with all of my heart.


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